


save a prayer

by ForYou_InSilence



Series: Save a Prayer [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Complicated sexy times, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not a light-hearted read, Not a lot of fluff to be found, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RPF, Some Fluff, Some angst, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, angst porn, read with caution, rentboy au, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-03-15 02:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForYou_InSilence/pseuds/ForYou_InSilence
Summary: Sometime ago,drawsaurusthrew outan amazing fic promptfor a rentboy!Timmy au. With their permission, I’ve taken a stab at it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is RPF. A work of fiction. I do not know these people and mean no offense to anyone they may resemble in any way. Just having a little fun because they are so beautiful to imagine together. 
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

You saw me standing by the wall corner of a main street

 And the lights are flashing on your window sill

All alone ain't much fun so you're looking for the thrill

And you know just what it takes and where to go

Don't say a prayer for me now, save it till the morning after

**_Save a Prayer,_ Duran Duran**

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

> **_Has Armie Hammer Missed the Nail?_ **
> 
> _Armie Hammer, Hollywood’s golden boy, may have bitten off more than he can chew. The summer’s biggest blockbuster— an epic biopic of the life of legendary film cowboy, John Wayne— is predicted to fall flat with Hammer as the titular star. From mid-shooting directorial changes, rumored behind-the-scenes infighting, lackluster pre-screening reviews and a budget that was blown out of the water, the film is as good as dead on arrival._
> 
> _It remains to be seen if Hammer’s career can withstand the blow._
> 
> **_~The Hollywood Reporter_**

 

 

Armie doesn't know where the control comes from. The urge to hurl his phone out the fucking window is unbearable, but somehow he manages to force himself to place it calmly on the kitchen island in front of him. He plants his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning over, his head sagging forward between his shoulders.

He knows better than to read reviews, but self-restraint was never one of his stronger suits.

The film isn’t due for release in the states for another three weeks and they're already calling it a flop. _Hell,_ who is he kidding? He knew that the first week on set. He’s never had a more horrible filming experience, and now he is going to have to go out and talk it up and sell it to the viewing public in order to convince them it isn’t the piece of shit he absolutely knows it is.

He fucking hates the thought of the upcoming promotional circuit and true to his usual reaction to stress— and worry— he can’t sleep. His handlers would kill him if they knew _how_ he handles the stress as he pushes off the counter with a resigned groan. He bends down to lace up the sneakers on his feet.

When it all gets to him, when the pressure and the strain make him want to crawl out of his own skin, he has to get out. Run and sweat and let his mind go blank. He knows himself. If he stays in, he’ll be so far down the rabbit hole of searching for every bad thing ever said about him online and he  _really_ knows that never ends well.  He lacks self-control and the urge to argue back, to defend and deny, is entirely too strong for him to ever resist.

That was a lesson learned the hard way and the very reason he stays away from social media.

It's an extreme act of self-discipline when he refuses to give into the urge to search out more of what he knows the critics are saying about him and this film and his soon-to-be-over career. The only way to make sure he _stays away_ is to get away. So, at time when any sane person is normally contemplating the idea of sleep, Armie grabs his house keys, sets the alarm by the front door and takes off into the night.

That’s the first time Armie sees him. It’s 2:53 in the morning.

He’s on the corner of Santa Monica and Wilshire, a dark lanky form, ankles crossed, leaning against the street sign. Armie can tell he’s young by the way he’s dressed, baggy hoodie and jeans. He can also see he’s too thin, watching him tap furiously at the screen of the phone in his hand— fingers pale and spider-like; wrists so small Armie is certain his own fingers could wrap round them twice. His hair hangs in long, dark tangled curls, frustratingly shielding his face from Armie’s view. A cigarette dangles precariously from his mouth.  

Something about him standing there, in the spotlight of a random streetlight makes Armie think he was made for it.

Armie looks up and down the empty street, waiting for the light to turn green. He could run on, no need to wait, but it’s late, and he’s tired enough now he thinks he might actually manage a couple of hours of sleep when he gets home. He bends down, hands on knees, taking the moment to catch his breath.

This late at night, even downtown, it’s quiet, the streets deserted; the only sound, a single car in the distance. They’re the only two people left in the world. The thought brings Armie up short because honestly? He really needs some sleep if his brain is going to be this over-dramatic.

_Actor, yeah, definitely the right career choice._

Armie inwardly rolls his eyes. Nothing like an existential crisis in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard. Adding insult to injury, he’s not sure the boy even knows they’re the last of human civilization; Armie can hear the pounding bass of the music blasting from the kid’s earbuds from where he stands, three feet away.

Armie feels a bit like a creeper, knowing this kid is unaware of his presence. The thought makes him reckless. _Everyone_ knows who Armie Hammer is. He’s a household name, but here he stands in the middle of southern California beside this kid who doesn't even know he's  _there_ ; he might as well be any random guy on the street.

It’s not like Armie _needs_ the attention, but he thinks maybe it’ll make this kids night to meet a famous movie star. He opens his mouth to speak, he doesn’t know what, just that he has to, but never gets the chance.

The boy lifts his head, looks behind him to the opposite side of the street, before taking off at a sprint, crossing against the light.

He never looked up, he never looked back. He never knew Armie was there at all.

Headlights turn the corner from the next block and a car approaches, pulling to the curb a few feet away from where the boy pauses to wait. There’s a moment or two before he leans in to say something to the driver through the passenger side window before he climbs in and the car pulls out.

Armie rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing the sweaty mess off his forehead. The crossing light changes to green as Armie wipes his brow with the back of his forearm. He continues his run— still four miles from home.

 

During the next week and half of Armie’s insomnia-fueled late-night runs, he spots him three more times, but always at a distance or walking on the opposite side of the street.

Armie hates he’s keeping count, but the _fourth_ time he sees the kid, it’s 3:02 in the morning and pissing rain, unusual for the season in SoCal. The air feels like a sauna and Armie’s eyes burn as sweat and rain mix, dripping steadily into them.

He immediately recognises him, standing under the awning of a children’s clothing boutique, leaning against the glass-front door. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of jeans that are at least two sizes too big with holes in both knees. Armie is fascinated by the flash of pale skin through the openings as he shuffles his feet. His posture reminds Armie of an accordian— trying to fold in on himself.

As Armie approaches he can see the boy’s head turn, looking in his direction, though his features still remain stubbornly hidden in the dim light of the awning. His hair is dripping, hanging in his face. His clothes are soaked, the hem of his hoodie hanging nearly to his knee.

Armie’s feet pound the sidewalk in a steady rhythm, splashing against the rain-drenched pavement. The boy looks down as he approaches and doesn’t look up as he passes.

Something about the closed-off aura makes Armie hesitate. His pace falters, and he almost stops, looking back. The boy has already stepped away from the cover of the store-front and is walking away— head down, shoulders drawn up around his ears, as if that's enough to shield him from downpour— in the opposite direction towards a car just pulling up at the corner.

Armie can’t help himself as he slows to a near stop, turning to rubber-neck as he practically walking backwards, to watch the exchange. The boy leans into the open window, and nods, then looks around. Armie can’t tell if he catches his eye or not, the light too dim to make out any of his features, but he pauses just a second, as if he’s looking at Armie before climbing into the car.

_Ah._

Rain drips down the nape of Armie’s neck and he blames that on the shiver that follows in its path, not the realisation of what this kid is doing out here, in the middle of the night, getting into strange cars with strange people.

Armie doesn’t think about that knowledge when he strips off his wet clothes; cold, damp skin prickling into gooseflesh as steps into the scalding water of the shower when he gets home. He definitely doesn’t  remember the flash of skin through the holes in the knees of those jeans as he closes his eyes and let’s the heat of the water wash over him.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks in the world to my partner-in-crime, [2insProud](http://archiveofourown.org/users/2insProud/pseuds/2insProud). Couldn't do it without you, doll. xoxo
> 
> Thanks to everyone that has left such kind and amazing comments on this fic. It wasn't supposed to have taken over a week to get this chapter posted, but the flu came calling and boyo! Knocked me for a loop. I'm back to nearly peak condition, so the updating should resume in a more acceptable timeframe.

“You look like hell.”

Armie steps aside, holding the door open to allow his manager to breeze past him. He knows from years of experience it’s better to ignore her barbs than to engage.

With a resigned sigh, he follows on silent, barefeet in the wake of the tap-tap-tap of her heels across the marble entryway of his Santa Monica home. He’s not in the mood to ‘work’ but, if he  _ has to _ , then at least it’s here and not her glass tower in Studio City.

She never tried to understand his need to be as far away from that grind as he could possibly be. Not that Santa Monica is the middle of nowhere, but it more or less affords him a bit of buffer from the maddening crowd in Hollywood. It boggled her mind when this was where he decided to settle and completely misunderstood his need for the surf and the sand—  _ God, the sand is everywhere, does it not drive you mad? But, I guess the  _ view _ is fine by you,  _ as a barely clad buxom young thing ran past in the surf _ —  _ right outside his backdoor. She never cared for the drive out ‘this far’ when he’d had a perfectly acceptable home in Bel Air  _ before _ . The list of things she never cared about before had been the biggest surprise of all.

Inside his office off the front hall, she takes the chair in front of his desk as he collapses face-first into the worn-leather sofa.

He hears her rummaging in the large leather portfolio that seems eternally attached to the end of her hand. She's no-nonsense— doesn’t want to be there any more than he wants her to be— and gets quickly down to business.

Armie occasionally grunts in acknowledgement, keeping up the pretense that he’s paying attention as she lists off the events of the upcoming week’s schedule.

It’s a light load, comparatively speaking. A couple of phone interviews for overseas markets, a podcast with  _ The Hollywood Reporter _ — which he really dreads after their last write-up— and a photo shoot with  _ Interview _ .

It's the last full week before hardcore promo and the press junkets begin. Three weeks until the premiere.

Three weeks. The idea makes him want to laugh hysterically. In less than a month his career could be over. After the years he’s struggled to get where he is, to be taken seriously, it was all now riding on this  _ one _ film. With the flip of the switch  he could go from Hollywood’s golden boy to the cause of the biggest cinematic failure of the 21st century.

_ He hadn’t even wanted to  _ take _ the damn part. _

“Are you ill?” She asks, once she’s finished, stuffing all the papers and appointment books back into her bag.

Armie groans, shuffling to sit up, resigned as he scrubs his hands through his hair.

“I’m just tired. Not sleeping so well and dreading all this promo.” It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t exactly the truth either.

He knows her concern is tepid at best, her vested interest in solely maintaining her  _ own  _ image as his representative.

“It has to be done. No use pouting about it.”

She’d never been one to offer much sympathy. Even when they’d been married.

It had been doomed to fail. They’d met and married too young. It had been good until it eventually wasn’t as it was hard to find any middle ground when you found you were standing on two different islands. They’d simply grown up and apart, with nothing left in common. There were things Armie had late-in-life come to realise about himself that Liz just wasn’t willing to endure, nor should she have been expected to.

She’d been his manager from the start, building a standing in her own right within the industry as Armie’s career took off. When their marriage finally collapsed, Armie was in no place, mentally, to face the facts of just  _ why _ they were splitting. He still couldn’t. There was no way his lifestyle could sustain the kind of scrutiny he’d be placed under if it  _ all  _ came to the surface. So,faced with the painful reality that Liz knew too much about him to trust cutting ties with her altogether, status quo was reached:

Liz would keep Armie’s secrets and Armie would endure her remaining presence in his life by paying to keep her on.

“I’m not pouting.” He’s quick to defend because he isn’t. It’s just a statement of fact. No one liked this part of the gig. Armie shoves a hand through his hair now trying to right what he’d just made a mess of.

_ The story of his life. _

Armie imagines her eyebrow would lift in incredulity. If it could.

She drops her bag on his desk with a heavy sigh.

“You’re really going to have to suck it up, Armie. There’s a lot riding on you to make this film as successful as it can be.”

The laugh bursts from Armie’s chest like a bird suddenly frightened from its nest. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know what’s at stake here?”

“I think, as usual, you’re only focussed on what the failure of this film could mean to you, when there’s scores of people depending on this to succeed-”

“Oh, trust me, I’m fucking aware of who depends on me. You sure as hell never miss an opportunity to  _ remind me _ .”

It’s a low blow but Armie’s at his wits end with having to maintain the constant quid pro quo with her.

Rolling her eyes, she grabs her things.  “It’s your job, Armie. You’ve  _ always _ been good at pretending.”

Armie rests his head in his palms, the tap-tap-tap of her shoes echoing down the hallway before the front door closes behind her, leaving behind the damning silence.

It had never occurred to him that he was  _ pretending _ in his real life. He knew the lines between fiction and reality, it was his bread and butter. Was everything he knew about himself to this point in his adulthood merely another illusion? Projecting what he  _ thought _ he was supposed to be? Trying to live up to everyone else’s standards in a way he never could? How had he reached the age of thirty and not know who the hell he was anymore?

_ He was way too fucking young for a midlife crisis. Wasn’t he? _

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a restless funk. There is no way he will admit to himself that he’s merely biding time until the sun sets. Until the clock ticks its way past midnight and he can escape into that liminal space he lingers in on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard, roaming like a creeper, hoping for a glimpse of the spectre haunting him.

_ Is this what it’s like to lose your mind? _

He argues with himself about whether he should cancel his dinner plans with Niki and Ash, but as the afternoon continues to crawl by at a snail’s pace, he knows his only hope is to get out of this house. Out of his head.

Luckily, BOA on a random Wednesday evening isn’t the hotbed it normally is on weekends. There’s still quite a crowd, but it’s not the seen and be seen, packed elbow to asshole. The thought of too many people gathered in one place discussing trivial mundanities and fawning admiration in the moment makes him want to slowly shave off his skin with his hunting knife.

The hostess tries, and fails, to get his attention and it’s pissy of him, he knows, but he isn’t in the mood for chitchat and feigning likeability. He walks past her, easily seeing over the crowd where the guys already have a table.

“Arms!” Niki calls out, boisterous as ever, sliding to the middle of the circular, cream-coloured leather banquet to make room for Armie.

There’s a flurry of fist bumps and “How’s it hanging?” all around. Ashton and Niki already have drinks in front of them and several starter plates.

“Am I that late?” Armie half-chides, reaching over to pile oozing bone marrow onto a slim piece of toast.

He savors the buttery, melting fat as it coats his tongue, holding a hand up to a server as they pass.

They’re his oldest friends. He practically grew up with Niki and he’s not sure when Ashton came along; they’ve all just always been there for each other. More brother than friend. He knew he was lucky he’d ‘kept’ them through the divorce. It came as a surprise to everyone. Armie included. He’d always thought he’d hit this age and time in his life— money, career, success, wife— and be happy and content. It’s what everyone wanted, wasn’t it?

It’s terrifying to wake up one morning, to a perfect life and realise it isn’t what you want at all. Worse yet. Not knowing what it is that  _ would _ make you happy.

Armie thinks maybe happiness and perfection must be mutually exclusive.

“No later than usual,” Ash is all toothy grin over the rim of his standard gin and tonic.

“What can I get you, Mr Hammer?” The server’s young and blond. And over-eager to impress as she leans in close to take his drink order.  The typical Hollywood-starlet-to-be, paying her dues— however she has to.   

Armie feels a foot nudge his beneath the table and he kicks back with a short, blind rage clearly telegraphing whichever asshat for them to  _ fuck off _ .

“Pacifico, 2 limes.”

He refuses to make eye contact and she quickly takes the hint that it’s not gonna be her lucky night.

“What the fuck, man?” Niki leans down, rubbing his shin beneath the table.

“You!” Armie crosses his hands over his chest, leaning back into the low banquet seat. “You know that shit’s not my bag.”

“Well, how would you know?”

The look Armie gives Ashton makes the man hold up his hands in supplication.

“It’s been almost a year since you and Liz split and I haven’t seen you give anyone the time of day since. And with all this stress, don’t you think it would help-”

“Getting laid is not gonna help with any of this. Fuck, that shit just complicates matters.”

“Then you’re doing it wrong.” Niki boasts,  _ sotto voce. _

“Piss off,” Armie grunts but there’s no heat in it. In fact, he actually gives in and smiles. Half-hearted, but there is an attempt.

Sure, maybe a roll in the hay wouldn’t hurt. Truth is, he misses the intimacy and presence of someone else in the bed in the middle of the night. Someone warm next to him when he wakes up with sleepy smiles and deep conversations whispered across the pillow.

But some random server in WeHo isn’t what he’s looking for.

Not anymore. He’s had the female riding his coattails. He’s had the fragile beauties whose most important thought of the week was whether they should Botox on the Wednesday before the awards show or not. That’s never happening again. He knows that would kill him.

He wants someone to  _ equal _ him. That could be just as solid a wall as he is. Could meet him head on.  _ Bend not break _ under the weight of Armie’s more lascivious wants and needs.

A tall order to fill when all the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.

Men _ and women. _

Something cold, odd, like the legs of a thousand tiny spiders, creeps up the back of his neck and finds himself rubbing it away as the server places his beer, chilled glass and a tiny plate filled with limes in front of him.

He rattles his head and squeezes two slices into the neck of the bottle before chugging half it in one go. The cold helps to calm something he can’t name as a problem at all, really. Just this niggling, burrowing  _ something _ he is certain if he could pinpoint the nexus of, cut it out, get at the root of it burrowing deeper and deeper into the marrow of his own bones and bring it into the light of day. Maybe then he could take a breath. Finally, a deep breath and just get on with whatever the universe has in store for him next.

Luckily the server reappears at their table to take their orders, stopping his spiralling thoughts in their tracks. They take turns placing orders for way more food than any of them need before the shoe drops.

“So, Arms. The premiere.”

At the word, Niki’s head shoots up as looks at Ashton like he’s just thrown a live grenade into the middle of the table.

Armie leans forward, his elbows on the table with a baleful groan. He shakes his head.

“Look, we all read the same shit about what’s being said before anyone’s even had a chance to  _ see it _ . Maybe it can still manage-”

“Manage what? To break even? A $350 million budget piece of literal shit. Hell, his  _ estate _ sued to have me removed from the film. No, it’s gonna be a shitshow.”

Niki squeezes his shoulder in support.

“It happens to the best of them. It’ll be okay.”

Armie harrumphs and drains the last dregs of his beer with a shrug.

“Who you taking?”

These two are like a dog with a bone.

“You volunteering, Ash?”

“Haha, yeah, I’ll squeeze all this into some slinky number for you.”

Armie laughs and they all seem to take a collective breath.

“You do always seem to handle these things better  _ with _ someone.”

“With Liz you mean?”

Niki leans back, slings one arm over the back of the seat, looking off towards the back of the restaurant. He’s letting Ashton handle this one.

Ash pushes his plate to the middle of the table, leaning on his own elbows now, intent on Armie.

“She was good at all of this. The carpets and the parties. She loved it.”

“Yeah, I know what she  _ loved _ .” Armie closes his eyes, doesn’t want to get angry and resentful over it all again, not when he’s finally, sort of, let it go. “Besides, taking her would just open up another round of speculation we’re back together and it’s just more headache than I want— or need— right now.”

“You’re right. I know. Just think about someone. Hell, my cousin Vivian would volunteer.”

Niki bursts into laughter. “She looks more like you than you do, Ash.”

“Fuck off-”

“Excuse me? Mr Hammer, I’m so sorry-”

The teasing is cut short by two women standing in front of their table, phones in hand.

“We know this is so rude, but we are such  _ huge fans _ .”

Armie indulges, taking selfies and signing the random bits of paper they dig from within their purses. It’s part of the job. He doesn’t particularly care for it, when he’s out privately, but he understands it’s a small price to pay for the life he gets to lead.

The interruption also does a lot to slow the roll Ash and Niki had been building over trying to persuade him to ask someone to attend the premiere with him— or heaven forbid— get laid. They decide to head out for more drinks before paying their tab and heading toward the front of the restaurant.

“Fucking hell,” Niki grumbles, stopping short of the front hostess stand. Armie all but walks into him.

It doesn’t take Armie long to see what the hold up is. On the sidewalk, the paparazzi are a teeming mass. The doors to the restaurant are closed, but Armie can already hear them from where he stands. His name fills the glass vestibule.

“Give me your keys,” Ashton slides next to Armie, hand extended.

It’s a routine they’ve had for ages now as Ash heads to the valet to have them bring Armie’s truck to the curb in front of the restaurant.

“I’m sure those pics were on Insta and Twitter before they made it back to their table,” Niki frowns in the direction of the ‘fans’ that approached Armie earlier.

Armie shrugs. “I’m sure they didn’t do it on purpose. Just the way it is, man.”

“Still going out with us, or?”

“Nah, man. I’m just gonna head home. If they found out I was here, they’re bound to find me there, too. And I’m just not in the mood.” He sees the roof of his truck over the crowd as it pulls up. “Maybe this weekend? Come by the house, we’ll grill some meat or something?”

“Sure thing,” Niki gives Armie’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Tell Ash.”

“Will do.”

Armie braves the gauntlet through gritted teeth and sheer determination to reach the security of his truck. With a flip of the middle finger— a pic sure to make headlines on TMZ and E!News and have Liz threatening once more to break it off and shove it up his ass— he wheels out of the parking lane and heads home.

Of course there’s no relief for him there either. The silence of his sprawling empty house a pathetic reminder of his sprawling empty life. He has everything he ever dreamed he could want: money, fame, privilege. When is it enough?

_ When will it ever be enough? _

He squanders the rest of the evening, dozing on the sofa, knowing any moment he spends sleeping now, will eat away at the sleep he is able to get later, refuses to acknowledge what he’s doing. He’s tired, he should rest. That’s all.

It’s after midnight, when Armie checks the time on his phone. He’s been sprawled on his sofa for hours since he got home. There’s a Mike Tyson documentary on but he isn’t paying attention.

His skin feels too tight; like his insides will just burst free all of a sudden, stain the ecru carpet crimson beneath his feet. The pressure building and building; the thought intriguing in ways he doesn’t want to understand.

In a manic rush, he heads to his room. For some reason he feels like he’s late for something  _ important _ . His insides twisting in knots, like a prisoner just granted parole, allowed to see daylight outside the iron chains holding him down. He pulls off the shirt and jeans he had worn to dinner and changes just as quickly into his running clothes. He’s out the door at a sprint in less than five minutes.

Armie runs for miles, full tilt, until the muscles in his legs are screaming for mercy and his lungs feel as if they’ll explode. Blood thunders in his ears, finally drowning out the thoughts racing in his head, lulling them to a dull roar enough that he slows down, catching his breath.

Unsurprisingly, he’s once more on the west side of Santa Monica but resolutely denies the reason  _ why _ . It’s just become his routine, that’s all. The street is as deserted as always, black and empty where the street lights don’t quite meet, so that when you’re walking along the sidewalk, its like stepping from one universe to another. The black holes in between.

Armie steps into the 24-hour market. There’s no one inside but the clerk behind the counter, who is too busy tapping on his phone to pay him any mind. Still, out of habit, Armie ducks his head and pulls his ball cap lower over his brow. He buys a bottle of water; the cashier never looks up as he pays.

Armie walks the quiet street as his heart rate returns to less thunderous levels. He unwittingly takes notice of the occasional car passing by, casting surreptitious glances to the person in the passenger seat.

It was a longshot anyway, to think the odds would continue in his favor. The fabric of his t-shirt sticks to his back as he stops, taking a long pull from the bottle of water.

“That’ll rust your pipes.”

Armie startles at the voice, choking on water in a quick inhale. He coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and turns around.

It’s the kid Armie refuses to admit he’s been looking for all night. His stomach lurches, suddenly in his throat as he steps out of a darkened doorway onto the sidewalk. He looks up at Armie through a veil of dark, unruly curls.

_ His face _ .

Armie swallows and takes in the angles and edges under the glare of the street lights. He’s all hollow cheekbones with crests  sharp as glass. His square jaw accentuates the fullness of his lips, their dark tint striking against the paleness of his skin. (Armie does not think about what he would have to do to that mouth to make it that color) His eyes hidden in the shadow of his hair.

Armie has to remind himself to breathe. “Excuse me?”

The kid hikes his backpack higher on one shoulder, shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and tips his chin to the bottle in Armie’s hand. His mouth twists in a way Armie’s never seen anyone do before; mischievously endearing.

“Water? Rust? It’s a joke?”

Armie’s gaping, he knows he is, but he can’t help it. His voice isn’t at all like Armie imagined throughout all the nights he’s seen him out. Not that he’d allowed himself to imagine.  _ Much.  _ It’s deeper, richer, not at all tinged with the California twang of the Valley, nor the laid back insouciance of a SoCal surfer.  

“Um, yeah, that’s-”

“Funny?” 

He offers it so sincerely, Armie can’t help but burst into laughter. This kid is outrageous.

“It’s fucking hilarious,” It’s easy to admit because it’s the truth. This whole scenario is hilariously insane.

It’s the middle of the night and Armie Hammer is standing in the middle of the street talking to a probable male prostitute.

_ He’s losing his fucking mind. _

The thought is too real. Armie looks around, nervous.

The kid follows his gaze. “Unless they followed you from where ever you came from, you’re pretty safe here.”

That brings Armie up short and he once more pulls the ball cap he’s wearing down lower on his forehead without thinking. “Why would you assume someone would be following me?”

It’s the kid’s turn to laugh. “You’re serious? You think I don’t know who you are?”

_ Oh. _ Something sort of deflates inside of Armie. He hadn’t realised how much he had hoped for a bit of anonymity. Armie suppresses a shiver as a breeze filters through the alley, chilling the damp fabric of his t-shirt.  The plastic of the bottle crinkles in his tightened grip.

Armie tenses as the kid reaches into his pocket resigned to supply an autograph, or god-forbid,  _ another _ selfie. Armie does not want to think about this kids followers on social media.

The kid pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, expertly popping one out with a practiced flick of his wrist and once again, Armie’s caught off-guard.

“I actually liked some of your films.”

It’s the last thing Armie expected him to say.

“Just  _ some? _ ”

He doesn’t offer to say which ones, just a shrug, as he rubs a hand through his hair. It’s refreshing. The usual reaction to Armie is fawning obseqiousness.

“Me, too,” Armie haltingly admits, that sick feeling of dread for what he’s up against rising in the pit of his stomach.

“Huh,” the kid hums, seeming as surprised by Armie’s response as Armie was to his initially. “Don’t think I’ve heard too many movie stars actually admit that.”

“Come across a lot of ‘movie stars’, huh?” Armie internally grimaces at the horrible double entendre. He hadn’t meant it that way, but the twist of the kid’s lips proves it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Not unusual in my line of work to occasionally come across someone of your-  _ stature _ ,” he easily admits with a sardonic shrug. He lights his cigarette, smoke circling his dark head like a cloud.

Unsure how the tables have managed to turn, Armie crosses his arms over his chest. “Your line of work.” It’s not a question. Armie knows good and well what this kid gets up to.

He takes a long drag off of his cigarette. Armie’s fascinated by the length of his neck as he tilts his head, releasing the lungful of smoke in a long exhale.

Armie swallows and looks behind him down the street.

“I could give you a demonstration.”

Armie must look like he’s been poleaxed, his mouth flapping open and closed. The kid doubles over in laughter.

“Oh, my god. Dude, don’t have a fucking heart attack. I’m only kidding.”

“I’m not. I mean-”

That’s just the thing, Armie has no clue what he means. He’s not—  _ what? _ Interested? Willing?

_ Gay? _

“Seriously, it’s okay. You know, I’ve seen you down here. A lot. But, I know you’re not cruising.”

He’s seen him down here? Armie wants to ask when because all the nights Armie had spotted him, he’d seemed completely oblivious. There was never an indication he’d known Armie was around at all.

There’s also something about him knowing Armie isn’t ‘cruising’ that he doesn’t want to look at too closely.

_ What would happen if he were? _

A car slowly approaches and Armie automatically turns so that the driver can’t see his face. The boy gives a quick glance over his shoulder before crushing his cigarette out under the toe of his ratty Converse All-Stars.

Armie feels something like panic burst beneath his skin, fighing the urge to reach out before the kid has even thought about moving. 

_Stay._

He has to bite the inside of his lip to keep the pathetic words from escaping.

“If you ever do decide to change your mind, hit me up.” The kid taunts, slowly walking backwards, making his way to the car idling at the curb.

_Don't go._

Armie can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Sure, kid.”

He shrugs and winks. “It was worth a try,  _ la muvi star. _ ”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone that has embraced this fic. Your kind words and love mean so much. I hope to continue to live up to the hype. xoxo
> 
> As always, this is a work of fiction. 
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

He wakes to the blinding warmth of the California sun streaming in through the windows. He’d forgotten to close the drapes this morning when he finally returned home, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Glancing at the clock, he’s surprised to see it’s after three in the afternoon and can’t remember the last time he’d managed to sleep more than seven hours without some sort of pharmaceutical intervention.

Rolling to his back, he stares  at the ceiling, taking stock of his body. He revels in the restive state of his physical being— all-too-uncommon to him lately— noting the lack of tension he always carries in his neck and shoulders.

He flexes his ankles and wiggles his toes and doesn’t resist the smile that spreads across his face as he indulges— just for a moment— in recalling the sound of the boy’s voice from the night before. The mere thought reignites the bubbly exhilaration he’d felt hearing him for the first time; a voice deep and rich and unlike anything he had imagined him sounding.

Something warm like honey pools low in his abdomen, heat suffusing his belly as he recalls the blatant invitation the boy had offered so brazenly— _I could give you a demonstration_ —  catching Armie completely off-guard, only to disappear into the night once more before Armie had a chance to recover. Armie knows it was only in jest (wasn’t it?) but the mere idea has been planted and his lizard brain can’t help but dwell on it.

Nor can his cock resist a twitch at the mere thought. Armie runs a hand down his chest, scratching at the hair that covers him from neck to abdomen before slowly coming to rest low on his belly. His pinky nestles in the edge of his pubic hair, but doesn’t go any further. The guilt he feels makes no sense. Thinking of the boy makes him hard but he is hesitant to do anything about it. It feels _wrong_ somehow— a violation of some unspoken trust Armie knows is patently ridiculous, given the boy’s choice of profession. There is an innate desire to offer respect to this boy; to be the one that can look past what he does and see him as a person and not merely an object to be used.

It’s this desire at the heart of Armie’s continued midnight sojourns.  He ignores the idea of looking more closely— terrified of the idea, to be honest— in order to  understand his need to go out every night in search of him. All he knows is that it _isn’t_ to use him. Not like that. He doesn’t think. Besides, he isn’t one to pay for anyone’s affection.

Not _knowingly_ , that is. (Ex-wives not-with-standing)

There is definitely an attraction and Armie finds he’s surprised he doesn’t deny it. It’s never happened to him before. Not really. He appreciates the male form in an abstract, artistic way, but his desire has never lead him _there_ , but now? Now that he can’t stop thinking about this kid— his ethereal beauty, the mystery he represents there, in the middle of the night— it’s as terrifying as it is thrilling.

He looks down to the obscene tent pitched at his groin. His hand moves beneath the sheet with the intention of only giving himself one long, slow pull. His hips arch up in pleasure, his cock pulsing within the tight grip of his palm and he knows it’s no use to pretend. He closes his eyes, his mind immediately casting about for images of the boy he has stored away— the wildness of his unkempt hair, the frailty of his narrow wrists he knows he could encircle in one fist; his graceful long-fingered hands, the flash of skin through the hole in the knee of his jeans. His mind reels with the idea of forcing him roughly to those knees, hands held above his head in Armie’s tight grip, slowly feeding his cock to the boy’s eager waiting mouth, parting those luscious rose-tinted lips and burying himself in a welcoming throat.

That fantasy is enough and Armie comes in a blinding flash, spilling over his hand, across his chest, too soon and with a shout. He stares at the ceiling as the guilt and remorse wash over him in waves.

The rest of his day goes like the one before. Watching time tick by, waiting for night to fall.

For once, he’s grateful when his stylist comes over and they spend the late afternoon organizing outfits for his upcoming appearances. Final fittings for the Armani suit he will wear to the premiere are done as well as he tries not to dwell on the thought of that upcoming debacle.

It helps to keep him preoccupied and for several hours that afternoon he doesn’t think of midnight runs and the stranger he met on a street corner.  While the sun shines bright, he believes he’s convinced himself that he won’t go out tonight. Why should he? He could swim laps, or work out in his gym. He doesn’t _have_ to go for a run, or better yet, he could just change direction because he doesn’t _have_ to run downtown. Might be nice to head toward the hills; it would definitely be more of a workout.

He’s definitely convinced that’s what he’ll do until night actually falls and he finds himself checking the clock every half hour, his convictions melting away with each passing minute until he’s out the door, running towards something he can’t explain.

Armie finds him sooner than usual. He’s not in the heart of the downtown area, but closer to where Armie lives, on the east side where the more residential areas are just beginning to thin and give way to commercial real estate. The street lights are fewer and farther between here than the city center and Armie stops in one of the nebulous black holes in between, hidden in plain sight from where the boy stands a couple of blocks away.

He leans against a stop sign, tapping at his phone. Armie stares at him, hands on his knees, catching his breath. His heart pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s just run full tilt for miles or not. Armie shakes his head and takes a deep breath before taking off at a jog toward him.

This part of town is just as dead quiet and it isn’t hard to imagine he hears Armie’s footsteps pounding the sidewalk long before he looks up. He’s smiling, his teeth bright in the pale light as he slips his phone in his back pocket and steps away from the stop sign into the middle of the sidewalk.

Armie slows to a walk as he approaches, his own smile easily matching the one flashing at him with genuine warmth.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the boy teases with a lift of his chin, shoving his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curling up around his ears. The casual confidence of this kid staggers Armie a bit.

He turns and starts walking ahead, but at a pace slow and easy enough for Armie to catch up to as they easily fall in step with one another. They’re both silent but Armie can sense the boy’s eyes shift to look at him when he himself isn’t doing the same.

“Were you waiting for me?” Armie can’t help but ask after they’ve gone along silently for more than a couple of blocks.

The kid knocks Armie’s arm with his elbow. “No more than you were looking for me.”

Armie wants to deny the allegation, but there’s no denying the truth. He’s as transparent as a pane of glass; this kid can see right through him.

He laughs and hops ahead of Armie, turning to walk backwards in front of him. He’s all arms and legs with the kind of  kinetic energy only the young and, usually, innocent, ever have. Armie doesn’t think he was ever like, that even as a kid.

“You’re fucking _Armie Hammer_ , dude. Of course I’m fucking waiting for you.”

The way he says Armie’s name is with a kind of reverence that usually makes Armie uncomfortable. It’s not hubris to say nearly everyone knows who he is, but it hasn’t felt like something _special_  for a long time. Not the way this kid says it with such unadulterated awe, as if he can barely believe his luck. Armie just shakes his head and tries not to pay attention to the flush of heat he feels prickling in his cheeks.

“I guess it was more like _hoping_ you’d show up.”

“You were, huh?”

The boy laughs, but it’s not like anything Armie’s ever heard, more of a rumbling wheeze of an inhale.   

“Don’t let it go to your head, ‘Mr Movie Star’ _. I_ had an excuse being down here anyway, so,” his hair flops in his face as he half walks, half bounces, his steps just as sure backwards as they would be forwards. He deftly sweeps an unruly lock to one side behind his ear with his long pale fingers. Armie swallows hard.

“An excuse?” Armie parrots with a chuckle. He lifts the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. It’s a normal action for him but he realises what he’s done when he smooths the damp cotton back over his torso and catches the boys eye as he quickly looks up from Armie’s bare abdomen.

He’d been watching and Armie feels something hot and tight coil in his gut. He hadn’t meant it as a flirtation at all but there was no denying the interest he saw in the eyes of the boy in front of him.

The kid looks away, scrubs a hand through the hair at his nape and shrugs. “Well, I mean, I suck cock for a living, you know? Hard to troll for randos in broad daylight, so,” he opens his arms wide. “Here I am at midnight. What’s _your_ excuse?” It’s defensive and Armie immediately feels bad for making light of it.

The offhand comment is so abrupt it takes Armie completely by surprise and he stops dead in his tracks. The sounds of the night surround them in the darkness where they stand just outside the arc of light from the next streetlamp over.

_What must that be like, to be who you are with no apologies?_

The thought pulls Armie up short and he just stares at the boy in front of him. He’s finally stopped walking as well, his eyes catching what little light there is, glittering as he stares up at Armie. Everything about his face is open and genuine, not a trace of shame or contrition anywhere to be found.

His eyes are wide and dark, unblinking as he allows Armie to look his fill. The honesty within them steals Armie’s breath as something cracks wide open within his chest. Images from earlier come rushing back, touching himself as he thought of this _kid_ and the shame of it is bitter as bile in the back of Armie’s throat.

It feels like the worst sort of betrayal in the face of such brutal candor. Armie shudders to think how he himself feels when anyone looks at him and never really _sees_ him. How it’s easy to put Armie in the box of having it easy— judged merely by his golden boy good looks and not on the merits of his abilities as an actor, or even a _human being_. Just a pretty face and an empty head. For all intents and purposes, he’s done just the same to this kid— using him to fuel his own indecency merely because of what he does.  

“I can’t sleep.”

The confession weighs so much more than the mere words can convey.  Armie barely manages to force them up from his throat, to push them past his lips. They’re out before he’s thought to say them and he feels the heat of shame burn up his neck and bloom in his face.

It feels like a truth for a truth.

Armie watches as the boy takes the words in; sees in his face as the words take root, compute and slot into some kind of order of understanding in his mind. It’s fascinating and unlike anything Armie has ever witnessed anyone do, until he’s nodding and turns to continue walking.

They walk a long time, both in their own silence, before the boy finally says anything.

“Your film’s gonna flop.”

Armie barks out a laugh that echoes down the quiet street. He isn’t hurt to hear it so plainly stated. A fact is a fact. He’s not surprised even this kid has heard the rumours. It’s front-page news. It’s on every entertainment news cycle. It’s all over the internet. _Everyone_ knows.

“That’s what they say.”

“Not surprised, given the directorial debacle. By the time you were locked down in your contract, the whole sitch with the estate was pretty much the death knell for a film that could have been ace.  If you’d walked then, it would have been an even bigger blow to your career.”

He spouts the information like it’s his business as he pulls his phone from his back pocket. Armie can see the screen light up now that it’s in his hand, can hear the faint buzz of the incoming call. He doesn’t answer, but taps quickly at the screen before sliding it back into his pocket and looking at Armie as if he’s not just blown his mind.

“How do you know all that?”

He shrugs again and looks down at his feet as he walks, kicking at a random pebble with the toe of his ratty Converse.

“I have a lot of downtime and live in the cradle of Hollywood. Someone’s always leaving the trades lying in random bathroom stalls and hotel rooms.”

Armie quickly looks over at the boy who remains looking down at the ground as they walk. Imagining all the sordid reasons this kid is ever in any of those places is like a punch to the stomach.

He only hums in agreement and out of deference to the kid’s moxie, Armie ignores the pointed reminder.

“You seem to have a grasp of how things work a lot more than most insiders I know.”

The kid looks up, focussing hard on the road in front of them. “It’s always been a passion of mine.”

Armie wishes he would look at him; wants to see if the sincerity of his admission is as plain on his face as it in his voice.

“An aspiring actor?”

It’s the kid’s turn to laugh, though it lacks any sort of joy. “Why not? It’s the land of dreams, right?”

Armie is at a loss as to how to respond. He doesn’t know this kid— at all— but he does know there is something so wrong with him sounding this jaded and defeated.

“You never know. Just look at Bryan Cranston. He didn’t get his break until he was what- in his forties?” It’s a lame example but the best Armie can come up with off the top of his head.

This time the laughter is filled with genuine mirth. “Heisenberg? Really? Maybe you’re onto something there. Instead of selling meth, he could fuck for bucks.”

“Jesus,” Armie groans, shoving a hand through his hair. “That’s some silver lining, right?”

The kid only laughs once more and shakes his head. “Sure, man. I’ll just start going to auditions between back-alley fucks and it’ll be all good. _A star is born,_ ” he crows, spreading his arms wide as if to encompass the headline before elbowing Armie in the ribs for good measure.

Armie pushes him away with a laugh as they continue down the street in companionable silence.

Their steps fall in sync without thought and Armie finds an unparalleled comfort in the idea of someone merely content to walk with him. The feeling is heightened by the shroud of darkness, the sound of cicadas droning in the trees. Armie tries to imagine the last time he’s felt this at peace with himself and is disappointed when there isn’t a single moment he can recall.

They quietly meander for several more blocks, finally making their way into the downtown district when a car pulls to the curb ahead of them. The sight makes Armie tense as he fights the urge to suggest they change routes, take a side street for a change of pace. He isn’t prepared for this enthralling interlude to end, but knows he can’t ask the kid to merely stay with him instead of doing what he’s out here to do.

Armie resolves to say goodbye, head home once more when the kid reaches out and places his hand on Armie’s forearm.

“Just keep walking.”

Armie nods as the kid steps around, now the one walking along the street side.  The car’s lights are on and the engine is still running as they approach. Armie can make out only one dark silhouette on the driver’s side.

“Yo!” a voice calls through the open passenger-side window as they walk past.

Armie continues walking as the boy stops on the curb beside the car. It’s nearly more than Armie can bear, not to turn and watch him disappear like he has every other night Armie has seen him out here.

The thought this kid could truly drive away and never be seen again unnerves Armie in a way he won’t analyze.

He can hear the boy talking, the person in the car getting louder, sounding agitated. Armie waits for the sound of a car door closing, but there’s only a thump before he hears the kid yell, “Fuck off!” followed by the squeal of tires as the car barrels past Armie.

It drives past so quickly, Armie doesn’t have a chance to catch sight of the kid in the car when he hears footsteps running from behind. He turns and can’t believe it’s him, racing to catch up to where Armie stands.

Armie turns his head, to see the taillights of the car fading in the distance then turns back, to find him standing in front of him, smile as wide as his face and brighter than the sun.

“Didn’t you need to-” Armie makes a half-hearted wave with his hand in the direction of the car.

“Nah, I got better things to do,” he says without a hint of facetiousness, his smile still burning bright.

Armie feels the warmth of it to the tips of his toes and smiles back, just as open and carefree.

They walk and talk about everything and nothing and it isn’t until the sun is peeking above the horizon that either of them realise hours have gone by. Armie knows he should head home, try to get at least a couple of hours sleep. He has that podcast to do later and needs to be at least coherent to muddle through.

Armie glances at his watch, seeing that it’s past six in the morning. His jaw cracks in a yawn.

“You know, there’s a scientifically-proven solution to insomnia,” the kid announces as he throws his cigarette into the sewer grate.

His tone makes Armie wary to answer. “There is, huh?”

“Yep,” he shoves his hands in his back pockets, nodding as he rocks back on his heels.

Armie takes the bait against his better judgement. “Just what that might be?”

He looks up at Armie, all innocent wide eyes, licking his cherry-stained lips before he speaks. “I could suck you off and guarantee you’d sleep like a baby.”

Armie feels as if the air has been knocked out of him. A one-two punch of lust and mortification making his knees suddenly weak.

He laughs to cover how much the mere idea intrigues him. _He’s going straight to hell._

“I like you, and I’m _very_ good at what I do,” he winks and his mouth twists in a sardonic smile.

“I don’t doubt that a bit, but you’d probably get more money for selling the story to TMZ or some shit.”

“You don’t know my going rate, Mr Movie Star.”

Armie shakes his head, still smiling but feeling a bit more sober about the whole proposition. “I’m sure  you’re worth every penny, but I’m going to have to pass.”

The boy shrugs. “Your loss.”

“No doubt,” Armie offers with true sincerity.

They’ve made their way nearly back to where they met earlier in the night. Armie looks up the street, the early morning light limning everything in shades of peach and orange.

“Timmy,” the boy says quietly beside him. Armie looks over at him. He’s staring off into the distance as well and Armie feels a bit breathless to see him more fully in the oncoming light of day.

“I’m sorry?” he manages to ask, not looking away from the porcelain perfection of his face in the golden morning light.

He slowly turns toward Armie, looking up at him. Armie swallows hard, noting the green of his eyes.

“My name is Timmy.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Complete and total apologies to anyone who lives and/or knows this general area of California. I am literally pulling things out of my arse to make them work for the fic. LOL

“What did you do before you became an actor?” Timmy steps up onto the seat of a picnic table with a dancer’s grace, perching atop it like a bird, his feet tapping an erratic, nervous staccato on the wooden bench below.

They’re in a park in the middle of nowhere. Armie imagines in the light of day, it’s a lovely green space, filled with kids laughing and running from beleaguered parents; joggers enjoying the shady trails beneath towering Aspens, Sycamores and Cottonwoods, instead of the usual sandy, sun-parched paths of the hills.

It feels isolated from the rest of the world. It’s the same way Armie would describe their late-night sojourns— an indefinable _something_ separate from the rest of his world. Armie can’t see past the edges of the pathway lights and the illusion adds to the sense that nothing exists outside this liminal space.

Just him and _Timmy._

Armie has yet to say his name out loud and isn’t certain why he hesitates. Perhaps it’s the fear he’ll like the sound of it too much; terrified he’ll become addicted to the shape of it in his mouth.

They’ve been trading questions off and on all night. Both as eager to answer as they are to listen. Neither have truly revealed anything of import, but it’s _real_ conversation like Armie can’t remember having with anyone in a very long time.

Timmy talks at hyper-speed— rambling, meandering thoughts on subjects that he seems to pluck from the air at random. His intelligence and insight on such a wide-range of topics is awe-inspiring. Film, history, music, Armie listens in rapt attention and barely-veiled awe.

As Timmy talks, Armie tries to pin down his accent and settles on the idea it's somewhere in the northeast. He speaks with sharp consonants and perfect enunciation in a voice that alternates between a somewhat high-pitched over-excitement when he’s talking about a favorite scene in a film Armie’s never even heard of to a low, growl-kissed timbre as he discusses art and its responsibility as a mirror to be held up to the world. There is something about the solemnity in that statement particularly  Armie can’t seem to shake. They hit too close to home and Armie recoils from thinking about them too much.

Throughout their conversations, the questions alway linger in the back of Armie’s mind and he wants to ask—  is dying to ask— how he ended up here, doing what he does. Was he that kid who came here with nothing but the clothes on his back and a dream? To find a place in an industry overrun with fresh faces and too-eager, overly ambitious actors and  models. Literally a dime a dozen. Where, without an _in_ or a willingness and _understanding_ for how the game is played, he simply ended up lost in the shuffle?

Armie takes a seat beside him, his height easily enabling him to do so without having to actually climb up. He suspects Timmy could as well (he’s not short by any stretch of the word, Armie is merely exceptionally tall) but Armie reckons Timmy’s acrobatics are more to do with the fact that he merely _wanted to_ , so he did.

Leaning forward, Armie plants his elbows on his knees and ponders Timmy’s latest question.

“I guess I did the usual requisite stuff you hear starving actors do,” he smiles as Timmy lights a cigarette. They are sitting close enough their legs almost touch. Armie fights the urge to bump his knee against Timmy's as he laughs to himself before he begins listing off the random jobs he’s held. “Let’s see. I was a courier for a casting agency. Did a bit of modeling. I lasted for about two weeks as a waiter.”

“Two weeks?” Timmy laughs and suddenly Armie can’t breathe because he laughs with his whole face, his mouth wide, his eyes turned down to meet the corners of his  upturned lips.

Armie’s never seen anything like it. His stomach suddenly feels hollow and full of helium.

"I gotta know- did you quit or did they _fire_ you, big time _movie star_?”

Armie smiles, rolling his eyes at Timmy’s over-dramatic flair, thinking back on the humbling experience. “What do you think? I’m 6’5”, 220 pounds in this tiny little cafe in WeHo. I was the proverbial bull in a china shop.”

“Ah, gotcha,” he nods, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

Armie can’t help but stare in fascination— the way his neck lengthens, arches as he inhales, his chest expanding in a slow steady rise. Long fingers curl around the filter as he holds it between his pursed lips. When he exhales, the smoke rises in an undulating wisp around his head.

Armie reaches his hand out and Timmy only looks at him, one brow raised in question as he passes the cigarette over.

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“I don’t,” Armie doesn’t try to fight the smile that pulls at his lips as he puts the cigarette in his mouth, the filter damp from Timmy’s own, and inhales.

 

*************

 

The following night finds them near the boardwalk. Practically deserted, it's eerie with all the darkened store-fronts and restaurants locked up tight. The world sleeps as Armie and Timmy wander along in their now-routine nightly walkabouts.

Armie suffers during the day from the lack of sleep and has no idea if Timmy is affected similarly. Neither of them ever asks about the ‘other time’ — the time they spend apart during daylight hours.  They never ask each other how their day was, what they did or who they spent it with. By some unspoken agreement they’ve decided neither exists when they’re apart.  Armie wonders if this is a parallel life; wonders if Timmy even exists when he isn’t with him— an apparition he’s conjured like a dream, whom vanishes in the light of day.

It isn't a normal healthy situation by any stretch of the imagination, but Armie also knows that whatever this is between them isn't _normal_ either.  He’s living for the nights and muddling through boring interviews and countless photo calls, running on nothing but adrenaline and caffeine, there’s simply no amount of fatigue that will ever convince him to give this up.

_He needs this._

The sound of their sneakers scuffing along the sandy wooden walkway mingles with the sound of waves crashing beyond the pier. They’ve never ventured this far, to this area. Some part of Armie’s mind always worried there would be too many people out and about; afraid someone could recognise him. The shame in his fear of being seen with Timmy is loathsome and he hates every second his mind forces him to remember.

Obviously, Armie doesn’t believe he’s too good to spend time with someone like Timmy, but public perception is his livelihood, as much as he hates to admit it. He knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that his career— what will be left of it, anyway— would never survive this type of scandal. No matter how _innocent_ it truly is in the fact that he only _talks_ to Timmy and nothing else. Ever.

Not that he _wants_ to do anything else with Timmy— _god, no,_ he’s firm on that— but the media wouldn’t hesitate to turn this entire innocent relationship  into a salacious headline.

While Armie’s been fighting dragons in his head, Timmy’s been talking with his usual alacrity. His exuberance and excitement about everything continues to remain an intoxicating enticement. He bounces around like a puppy and the sheer joy that radiates off him in waves is infectious.

Armie is pulled along like the tide to the moon. It’s inexorable.

So, it’s really no surprise when Armie has been so lost in the conversation,and his own thoughts, that he’s surprised when he looks around and realises where they are.

Luckily, there aren’t as many people around this time of night as Armie feared, so he relaxes and listens to Timmy talk about whatever he wants. He’s not even paying attention really, simply lulled by the cadence and timbre of his voice.

"You want to head back?” Timmy asks as they come to the pier entrance.

In the light of the quarter moon, Armie can make out a few fisherman at the end of the pier. He looks down, past the neon archway to the stretch of beach beyond. The tide is out, leaving a wide swath of luminous sand and beyond, the dark endless stretch of sea.

"Not really. You?”

Timmy’s eyes follow to where Armie is looking before turning back and their gazes lock. Timmy slowly shakes his head no and it feels like something inside Armie slowly warms and melts.

“Let’s go down,” Armie suggests softly with a lift of his chin in the direction of the beach.

"Yeah, okay.”

Before they reach the sand, they both stop and remove their shoes and socks. The sand is cool beneath their feet. Armie can’t remember the last time he’d taken a ‘walk’ on the beach. Especially at night. Which was a shame. He’d moved house for just that reason and he’d never taken advantage of the fact.

He’s jogged many mornings up and down the beach at sunrise. Played innumerous games of volleyball with Ash and Nick and scores of other friends. He’s just never walked or enjoyed the peacefulness the sound of the crashing waves and the sugar-soft feeling of sand between his toes. Or the comfort in doing either of those things with someone else.

Liz hated the beach. Always had. Oh she loved lounging by a pool in some tropical clime but despised the way sand stuck to everything and always wound up in the carpet, or in the car.

“I grew up on the beach,” Armie offers out of nowhere.

“Of course you did,” Armie can hear the smirk in Timmy’s voice. “You are a literal California golden boy, then huh?” Timmy goads, elbow catching Armie in the ribs.

They carry their shoes in one hand, walking close enough their shoulders touch as they try to find their footing in the loose sand. It becomes easier, more steady, as they reach where the sand is packed and condensed from the ceaseless waves. Timmy walks right at the water’s edge, the hem of his jeans gone dark from the splash.

Armie stares at his long pale feet, toes hidden in sea foam.   

"The Cayman’s actually.”

"Oh? Wow. That’s- yeah, that’s definitely not Cali. How did that come about?”

He rarely spoke about his childhood in the Caymans with anyone but the words seem to pour without thought as they walk along.

“You must have looked like a character from _Lord of the Flies,_ ” Timmy teases once Armie’s described how he looked upon his family’s return to living in California: long hair, an odd accent, completely unaware of the latest trends or music. The perfect object of derision for every bully in the vicinity.

They’ve stopped walking at this point, standing side by side, staring out at the eternal blackness. The sliver of moon reflects on the waves, twinkling like stars. The difference between sky and sea melting into one at the horizon. It’s feels confusing; there is no up or down. It feels like floating.

Armie drops his shoes and sits down in the sand and pulls his knees to his chest. Timmy follows.

“I certainly didn’t fit in with the rest of the crowd, that’s for sure,” Armie quietly concedes. It’s a painful time for him to think back on, always has been. “Not that I do now, but-” He shrugs, trying to brush off the feeling like he always did.

Of never quite fitting in. Of not fitting the mold everyone thought he should. He’s spent a lifetime trying to fit into the box everyone deemed was meant for him.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Timmy sits hugging his legs to his chest, head resting on his knees, looking at Armie with those eyes he swears can look straight through him. It’s just as unsettling as it always is and  Armie swallows tightly, turning away from that gaze, studying the horizon.

"I always wanted to be an actor. I just- I never wanted fame. Does that make sense?”

Timmy hums and turns back toward the water, chin perched on his knees.

The ocean is calm, waves barely breaking before they slide onto the waiting shore, lulling with their ceaseless susurrus. There’s a slight breeze and Armie watches as it weaves between them to gently lift the curls of Timmy’s hair along his nape, brushing them across his forehead. Armie’s fingers twitch with an undeniable urge to slowly reach over and  push them aside, to tuck them behind his ear before trailing a fingertip down his smooth as marble cheek.

Something like the mix of fear and longing winds tight in his chest and he has to force himself to look away, fingers curled tightly into fists and he's asking before he can stop himself-

“How did you- I mean, how did you end up here? This can’t have been _your_ dream.”

Armie hates the way his inquiry sounds more like an accusation. He honestly just wants to know.

Timmy shrugs, “I was good at sucking cock so figured I might as well be making money while doing it.”

Armie feels like his stomach has suddenly filled with ice. The words fall too easily from Timmy's mouth, too matter-of-factly and they cut Armie to the core.

“I didn’t mean-” he’s almost stuttering, trying to find someway to backtrack and make his question seem less disapproving.

Timmy gives a mirthless laugh, shifting to lean back on his hands, legs stretching out in the sand in front of him.

“Hey, I know what it looks like. It’s not like this _was_ my dream, it’s just how things played out.” His shrug of nonchalance hurts Armie in a way he can’t explain. As if Timmy has given up on the idea of doing anything else and that feels like such a waste to Armie.

Armie wants to say something, _anything_ to convince him that there's got to be another way. To fight the resignation that what he is— _who_ he is now— is all he can ever be. He can't manage to say anything before Timmy is speaking.

“The more important question here is, _Mr Hammer_ ,” Timmy sits up, sliding closer to Armie so that they are touching thigh to hip. The sudden movement and change in the tone of Timmy’s voice sets Armie’s nerves on edge.

Timmy is so close to him now, looking up at him through the veil of lashes and trailing tendrils of hair. Armie’s throat tightens but he doesn’t move away; not as surprised as he should be to find he doesn't want to.

He leans close enough Armie can feel the warmth of his breath against his jaw and  a smile pulls at the corner of Timmy's  lip before he bites it, pulling it between his too-white teeth. Armie feels like a rabbit caught in a snare. He can’t look away, can’t  move even as Timmy’s hand is suddenly covering his crotch, fingers and palm enveloping the outline of his cock and balls through the too-thin fabric of his running shorts.

Nothing left to the imagination.

Timmy’s brows raise momentarily as his smile widens and his fingers grip tighter around Armie’s genitals. “I had _no idea_ , Mr Hammer. That ex-wife of yours was a fool,” he winks lasciviously, his voice  lowered and rough as gravel around the syllables of his name.

“You know. I’ve seen _all your_ films, so. When are you going to let me show you just how good _I_ am at _my job_?”

For two seconds Armie is poleaxed. The audacity of this kid, grabbing him literally by the balls and offering- _Jesus_ . For those two seconds the idea spins around Armie’s head and he would be embarrassed by the fact he’s half-hard now in the palm of Timmy’s hand, but then he looks at Timmy. _Really_ looks at him. His gaunt, too thin face, the hollow shadows beneath his eyes and cheeks; the clothes that are three sizes too big and the ratty backpack that never leaves his side.

Armie feels scraped raw and mortified by the idea he may have failed this test. He takes a deep breath and slowly places his hand over Timmy’s.

They stare at one another a long moment, Timmy’s eyes tracing all over Armie’s face as Armie hopes that what he sees is the right thing.

“Am I offending you?” For the first time since they met, Timmy’s voice is devoid of any bravado. Tinged with an anxiousness Armie’s never heard from him before.

Armie offers him a tender smile and squeezes his hand before removing it from his crotch. He places it on the sand between their legs and pats it once.

“Just don’t.”

_Just don’t do it again. Just don’t tempt me._

Armie brushes his hands together, knocking any sand off them before standing up. He reaches his hand out to Timmy— a peace offering.

When Timmy finally lifts his head, there's a look on his face Armie can’t discern. It's there for only a moment before he reaches up and places his hand in Armie’s.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should go without saying but- this IS a work of fiction and as always, I know nothing about any of the actual locations in mentioned California or New York. 
> 
> Let's just suspend disbelief and imagine I'm right. ;)

“Do not make me punch you in the nuts to cough them up.”

Armie’s completely taken by surprise and his head pops up so quickly his neck cracks. Steaks sizzle on the grill in front of him as he looks at Nick like he’s sprung two heads.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Armie hisses, barely loud enough to be heard as he leans to look around Nick to where his kids sit coloring something bound for the refrigerator later. “And, watch the mouth, man. I don’t need them repeating certain words they hear to their mother later.”

Ice rattles in the cooler by the pool as Nick fishes out beer for the both of them. He turns with a bottle in each fist before raising his hands in supplication and passing one over to Armie.

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon in that typical southern California way.  There’s a breeze off the ocean to counteract the scorching sun burning brightly in a cloudless sky.

It’s not his usual weekend to have the kids. The shared custody arrangement he and Liz agreed to was also typical in that they alternated weekends and holidays. They were flexible within those boundaries and Armie managed to have them during the week as much as his schedule allowed.

Liz’s call earlier that morning, asking if could take the kids for the afternoon, had come as a pleasant surprise. Apparently, there was some function— a charity gala for underappreciated shoes or a fundraiser in support of sequin abuse— she  _ had  _ to attend suddenly last minute that left her without the services of her usual nanny. There was a certain wrongness in having to be  _ asked _ if he could watch his own kids for the afternoon, as if he wouldn’t drop everything he could to be with them. So of course, Armie agreed, always thrilled for the extra time he was allowed to spend with his kids— no matter how it came about.

The loss of their constant presence had been the most painful part of the divorce. He had no qualms it had been the right thing— he and Liz just couldn’t stay married if either one of them wanted to survive, but he could never have imagined how hard it would be not to have them with him all the time. Not to be there to give them their baths, to read to them and snuggle them to sleep every night.

Thank god for FaceTime and an ex-wife willing to use it.      

Armie’s not quite as certain why he followed through with the invitation he’d mentioned earlier in the week for the guys to come over. Perhaps some part of his brain thought the buffer of having his kids present would prevent the conversation devolving into the usual ‘you need to get laid’ mess they always seemed keen to dwell on. 

So much for wishful thinking, especially now as the tables were taking an unexpected turn for the worse. Unwilling to rise to the bait, Armie uses all of the acting skills in his repertoire to school his features and hopefully thwart the cross-examination he feels is certain to come.

“You’ve not stopped smiling and you’re _ humming _ for God’s sake,” Nick practically hisses before taking a long pull from his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, you’re freaking my shit out, dude,” Ashton chimes in, sitting on the chaise-lounge in a cloud of cigar smoke. He winces as Armie frowns and cuts his eyes quickly to where his kids still color, thankfully oblivious to what they are saying. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure that’s just tobacco you guys are smoking?” Armie asks, looking confounded by their line of questioning. He turns the steaks, admiring the perfect criss-cross of grill marks he’s perfected over the years.

“Deets, man. We want the deets,” Nick demands.

Armie puts the tongs aside and takes a sip of beer. “Honestly, Nick. There are no  _ deets _ . And, FYI, the only people who say deets are twelve-year old douchebags. There’s nothing to tell.”

Nick snorts. “The only people who say ‘FYI’ are asshats, just sayin’.”

Armie rolls his eyes and makes exaggerated work of splashing olive oil onto romaine lettuce halves, adding salt and pepper before placing them cut-side down onto the grill next to the steaks. Through many practice runs he knows the lettuce will be ready at the same moment the steaks are a perfect medium rare.

He rotates the hotdogs positioned on the cooler side of the grill, making certain they don’t brown too much on one side. He knows how picky Ford is when it comes to his dogs and if there is even a hint of them being overdone, he won’t touch them.

Liz doesn’t allow the kids to eat processed foods when they are with her and he knows it’s petty, but he takes spiteful glee in allowing them whatever they want when they are with him. They’re kids and life’s gonna come for them soon enough, so Armie sees no point in denying them what they want. Within reason. After all, it’s a parent’s prerogative to spoil their children. He’s pretty sure it’s a by-law or something.

Nick and Ash exchange a look that makes Armie nervous.

Ash groans and gets up, walking over to where they stand. “Not even a week ago, you perpetually looked like someone had kicked your dog.”

They all three look to where Archie lays by the sliding glass door. He raises his head and one ear lifts when he senses the attention focussed on him before he decides they're all full of shit and goes on ignoring them.

“For fu- I did not.”

Ashton twists the top off his own beer with a loud pop. “Um, yeah you did. Me and Nick have barely heard from you all week. To be honest, we were surprised by the invite tonight.”

Armie knows that’s  true and can’t blame them for ragging on him now. The week had gone by in a blur of photocalls and interviews in between trying to find time for naps to make up for the sleep he was missing at night. Liz and his other handlers complained he looked like something the cat had coughed up, although Liz had had been much more colorful with her insults as per usual. Ashton and Nick had hounded him daily by text, where he managed to answer with maybe one for every three they sent. His work and friendships were suffering because of his nighttime treks but he didn’t see them ending anytime in the near (extended?) future.

“So?” Nick prompts, passing over a platter while Ashton places buns on the Peppa Pig plates set aside for the kids. They all had their jobs down pat by this stage in their friendship.

Armie keeps silent as food is plated and they all take a seat around the table under the shade of a large patio umbrella. The kids eagerly shove aside crayons and coloring books to grab up hotdogs smothered in ketchup with a squeal of delight. Armie can’t help but smile and simply bask in their unbridled happiness.

He also hopes his continued silence will squash the third degree from his best pals but isn’t surprised when it doesn’t.

“You could at least tell us her name?” The words are forced around the food in Nick’s mouth.

“Yeah, or where you met her?” Ash was worse than a fucking parrot, mimicking whatever line of bullshit Nick led with.

“For God’s sake,” Armie hisses, dropping his knife and fork in his plate with a loud clang.

Ford giggles and decides dropping silverware is the best game they’ve ever played, reaching over to grab his sister’s fork after he’s already dropped his own.

“Daddy, tell Ford to give it back.”

Armie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to quell his rising frustration because it isn’t his kids he’s irritated with.

“Ford, give Hops her fork back. We shouldn’t be tossing our silverware around, okay, buddy?”

Ford lowers his head and nods, handing the fork back to his sister.

“Thanks, my big man,” Armie ruffles his hand across Ford’s blond hair before placing a kiss to his crown.

The moment passes and Ford goes back to inhaling hot dog.

Ashton and Nick seem somewhat chagrined and they all continue to eat in silence.

“Do you have a girlfriend, daddy?”

Armie chokes and sputters at Harper’s sudden question. Nick and Ash merely grin behind the neck of their beers.

“No, darlin’. Daddy does  _ not _ have a girlfriend,”  Armie’s mouth was all smiles for his daughter while his eyes said  _ I will kill you _ to Nick and Ashton which quickly shelves all talk of girlfriends.

“Okay,” she chirps brightly, biting into a carrot stick loudly. “Can we go to the beach when we finish eating?”

“I wanna build a sand dragon!” Ford’s announcement is loud and enthusiastic.

Armie can’t help but smile. “A sand dragon? Then you better eat up, you’ll need all your strength to to fight such a ferocious beast.” Armie leans over, growling and tickling Ford until he’s breathless.

*********

“Can cooler heads now prevail?”

Armie, Nick and Ashton sit side by side in adirondack chairs on the beach behind Armie’s house. They’d splashed and  played at the edge of the surf, tossed a ball around and helped build a somewhat questionable sand dragon. Ford was pleased with it, and that was all that mattered as the kids were now busy digging a hole, searching for pirate treasure while the the three men sat nursing their beers in the late afternoon sun.

Armie groans and let’s his head fall against the back of his chair. He closes his eyes behind his dark tinted glasses and waits for them to start in on him again. His hope that they would let the matter drop dying with the setting sun.

“It’s merely a case of  _ me think he doth protest _ , man. You have bent yourself in fucking  _ half  _ to keep from giving us any kind of answer.”

“We  _ know _ you,” Nick adds on to Ashton’s remark. “So, spill.”

Armie knows Nick is right; they  _ do _ know him and  he’s only made things worse than they seem by merely trying to dodge the question. But what can he say? It’s not a  _ lie _ that he isn’t fucking someone, it’s just a lie that he’s  _ seeing _ someone.

Someone he can’t talk to them about for more than one reason.

“There’s nothing to  _ answer _ ,” Armie fumes, frustrated, which he convinces himself is all rooted in the third degree.

“Is it someone we know?” Ashton leans over in his chair, conspiratorily. “Oh, my god, are you fucking _ Liz _ ?”

“ _ Jesus _ . God, no! You  _ know  _ I’m not. How could you-”

“Well, what are we supposed to think? You’ve suddenly been allowed to have the kids over when it isn’t your weekend. You don’t know that many women and I’m sure you’re not fucking a dude, so-” Ashton shrugs and takes a pull off his beer as Nick laughs at the absurdity of that statement.

Armie’s stomach sinks into the sand at his feet. This is  _ exactly _ what he's been afraid of. No one would understand. He wasn't  _ gay _ but he’s certain that's all anyone would ever think of him if they found out…

_ Fuck _ , what was there to find out? So, he spent his nights recently  _ talking _ to a guy in a dubious profession. Armie hadn’t gone out  _ looking _ to meet a rentboy. There had been no money exchanged for  _ services rendered _ , but who would ever believe that to be true? Armie knew how this looked; he knew how this game was played. It was all about  _ perception _ in Hollywood, and as sordid as the industry was, this would be the icing on Armie’s fucking disaster of a cake.

It’s true he was lonely and wouldn’t mind finding someone to spend time with, someone that saw _ him  _ as more than a man dependent on his looks to get by and could see past the golden boy perfection and didn’t mind that the facade hid a myriad of imperfections. Someone Armie was just as eager to learn everything there was to know about in return. Someone who could talk all night and make Armie wish the sun would never rise.

_ Oh god. _

Armie’s mouth is dry, he can feel his heart hammering at  the base of his throat. He blinks too fast behind the dark shield of his sunglasses and hopes the guys are not as observant as they could be.

He takes a long pull, finishing off his beer, hoping to drown the panic rising in his chest with the cold bitter brew.

He lets the bottle come to rest on the wooden arm of his chair, picking at the label with the edge of his thumbnail. He stares at the shreds of paper as they fall to the sand and ruffle in the breeze.

“Look, guys, honestly there is nothing to tell. There is no one. I’m just- there’s a lot going on. I’m fucking stressed. I promise you will be the first to know when or  _ if _ there’s anyone I’m interested in. Until then, can you please step off my fucking dick?” He tosses his empty bottle into the sand and makes his way over to his kids, helping them dig a hole to China.

************

Armie’s breathing like a freight train, his chest and thighs burning as his feet pound the sidewalk. Sweat drips into his eyes and he welcomes the sting. He’s running full-tilt, like the thoughts chasing circles in his mind are wolves snapping at his heels, as if he could foolishly outrun them.

This is it; he’s decided. This will be the last night he makes his way down here.  The last night he’ll wander these streets with a boy who seems just as lost as he is. What is he even doing, night after night? They’re not  _ friends _ . They can’t be. How could that ever work? They live in two separate worlds that can never coexist. It has to be done. He can’t go on lying to his friends; hiding what he’s doing.

It's for the best, really.

Armie slows his pace as he nears their ‘usual’ meeting place. He straightens his spine and schools his features into placid passivity. He’s an actor, he knows how to play a part and tonight he’s playing the  _ it’s not you it’s me _ card to the hilt.

_ Traitor. _

He rounds the corner, a smile on his face, ready to end it all, when he sees the sidewalk is empty.  There’s a sudden strange swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he’s swallowed too much sea water. He stops when he gets to the corner, looking up and down the street.

No sign of him anywhere.

Armie brushes a hand back through his sweaty hair, and wants to laugh at the irony of the situation. Seems he wasn’t the only one who thought this was a bad idea and best to nip it in the bud before either of them got carried away.

Still, the idea of not having had the chance to say goodbye stings more than Armie would have thought possible. He has no way of contacting Timmy. They never exchanged numbers and Armie has no idea where he lives or stays.

Armie looks up and down the street once more and finds it as empty as he suddenly, ridiculously feels.

It’s barely half past midnight and Armie dreads the idea of returning home to his empty house. To his empty life. Without the conversation he’s used to having with Timmy to fill his mind, he knows he’ll not be sleeping anytime soon.

So, he wanders alone and starts the process of forcing himself to forget the scrappy kid in oversized hoodies, with holes in his jeans and eyes that knew too much too soon.

He’s barely gone a couple of blocks when he hears voices echoing down an alley, bouncing off the bricks and into the street in front of him. Armie can’t make out what they are saying, but he recognises one as Timmy’s low timber and he freezes.

For a second Armie feels like he can’t breathe, that perhaps he’s caught Timmy in the middle of a  _ transaction _ and that is something that he definitely doesn’t need— or want— to see. But as he gets closer, he can make out the tone of the conversation. Timmy sounds adamant and not at all interested in whoever he is speaking with.

Something compels Armie forward toward the mouth of the alley where he hides in the shadow of a storefront awning. He’s prepared to see anything— Timmy pushed up against the wall of the building, pants around his ankles; Timmy on his knees with some faceless rando balls deep down his throat. Armie feels hot and nauseated but the images won’t go away.

He’s prepared for anything but what he actually sees— Timmy standing in front of a police officer.

Armie’s blood runs cold and he shrinks from sight, quickly pressing himself against the building  and into the shadows so that neither of them can see him. He holds his breath as he strains to hear what they are saying.

“Let me see some ID.”

The officer’s request is brisk and bodes no argument from Timmy. Armie hopes he actually  _ has  _ ID and that the officer will be satisfied and let him go on his way once he hands it over.

“You know vagrancy isn’t allowed in this part of town-” there is silence Armie wants to assume it’s due to the officer looking at Timmy’s identification. “Or anything else you might think you want to get up to.”

“Yessir.” Timmy knows the drill, Armie’s sure this isn’t his first run-in, but he still can’t help but be concerned, wishing there was something they could do.

“What were you doing, going through the trash there?”

“I wasn’t,” Timmy’s reply comes too quickly.

“I saw you. You can’t be digging food out of the trash-”

“I  _ didn’t _ ,” Timmy insists, again too forcefully and Armie wants to tell Timmy to stop talking, that he needs to just say whatever he needs to in order to appease this officer.

“Then what were you doing?”

“Throwing something away.”

“Really? What were you throwing away that’s left sauce on your chin?”

Armie’s knees go weak and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach when he realises the implication of what the officer is saying. The thought of Timmy rooting through trash for something to eat; he remembers the food they’d thrown out this afternoon with a flash of white-hot shame.

“That’s it. Come on, kid. I’m taking you in.”

“What? Why? I wasn’t  _ doing _ anything. You can’t take me  _ in _ for nothing. Fuck this.”

Armie can feel sweat drip down the back of his neck as his mind races for something he can do to help, to stop this.

“Against the wall.  _ Now. _ ”

Armie’s moving before he thinks what he’s doing.

“Timmy, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought we were meeting at 3rd and Promenade?”

Armie walks down the alley like it’s a fucking red carpet. Timmy’s eyes are wide and the officer’s hand moves to his side.

“Everything okay here, Officer?” Armie’s leading with his hand held out, smiling like the California sun as he approaches. He watches the recognition of who he is register on the officer’s face and can see Timmy move to wipe at his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Armie swallows his anguish and focuses solely on the police officer in front of him.

“Sorry, we’re down here scouting for a project. This is my AD’s nephew. A USC film school intern. He’s not familiar with the area, are you Timmy?” Armie has no clue where the idea came from, but he goes with it, practiced in faking it till he makes it.

Timmy shakes his head, his mouth hanging open, literally speechless.

The officer looks at the identification card in his hand before reaching with his other to shake Armie’s. “He’s with you?”

“Yeah, it’s sort of an outreach program we’re starting. Kids who want to break into the business. We take them out, show them it’s not all red carpets and  parties and hot chicks, you know what I’m saying?” Armie winks, getting his point across.

The cop looks Timmy up and down and Armie forces his nerves back from clawing forward into full-blown panic.

“Says here he's from New York.”

“Oh, yeah? About time you got that changed, Tim,” Armie's tone is teasing even though he feels like he wants to vomit. “He only transferred this spring.”

Armie deserves an Oscar for this performance.

He steps closer, placing his hand on the officer’s shoulder, moving him away from Timmy and speaking in low tones.

“Listen, Officer-”

“Diaz,” he helpfully supplies and Armie knows how this will play out now.

“Officer Diaz, do you have a piece of paper?”

The cop looks confused for a second before pulling the ticket roster from his utility belt. He hands it over without question. Armie smiles as he quickly writes down a name and number.

“Call in the morning, tell them who you are and they’ll make arrangements for you and a guest to attend the premiere for my new film and the after-party, if you are so inclined,” Armie hands the notepad back to the officer.

“Mr Hammer, I couldn’t. I mean, that isn’t necessary-”

Abashed, Armie waves him off. “Please. For your service to our community.”

The officer stutters a thank you and Armie is gracious in passing it off as no big deal, taking Timmy’s ID from him before he turns and leaves the two of them alone in the alley. 

Armie can feel the adrenaline slowly leeching from his body, dripping from the ends of his fingertips, leaving them cold, his hands clammy. There is a minute tremor coursing throughout his entire body as he breathes slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. He stares at the licence in his hand:

_ Timothée Chalamet _

_ 413 W 42nd St _

_ New York  _

“Why did you-” Timmy starts to ask but Armie shoves his ID back into his hand before he can finish.

“Get your stuff. Let’s go.”

Armie can’t explain the feeling driving him at the moment. It feels like anger but he’s more concerned it’s something like fear.

_ Fear of what? _

Timmy shoves his ID into his pocket followed by his hands and just stares up at Armie.

“Where’s your bag?”

Timmy shrugs and looks down at the ground.  Something in Armie’s chest sinks but he knows  this filthy alley isn’t the place to get the answers he needs or wants.

Armie walks ahead, out of the alley turning left onto the sidewalk. His steps are determined and he can hear Timmy following behind him. Neither of them say a word— weirdly wrong compared to their normal routine— as they walk until Armie suddenly stops in front of a brightly-lit set of windows.

It’s a 24-hour diner. Armie pulls the door open, holding it for Timmy who just stands on the sidewalk staring. Armie groans and motions with a quick jut of his chin that Timmy is to enter. Timmy rolls his eyes and eventually  saunters past Armie like a sulky teenager being forced into spending quality time with the family.

There are two customers seated at the counter as they find their way to a booth in the back of the diner. Timmy slumps into one side as Armie slides into the other. Timmy sits with his hands still shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up around his ears like he’s cold. Looking at him there, huddled and curled into himself, eases some of anger and frustration that’s coiling within Armie. He knows it’s all unwarranted but can’t shake it all the same. It isn’t until Timmy finally looks up at Armie that it dissolves  completely, in an instant.

It’s a shock really, seeing Timmy for the first time in this bright indoor lighting. It’s what Armie tells himself, that it’s merely because he’s so used to the shadows of their normal interactions that seeing him so plainly is what makes his heart skip a beat.

But for all Armie's acting skills, he's a terrible liar. Especially to himself.

There's no  thought Armie can think when he looks at Timmy other than—  He’s  _ beautiful _ . Almost painful in his perfection  for Armie to look at him. But he does. He’s compelled to take in the green of his eyes, the dark pink stain of his lips, the flawless cream perfection of his skin.

Armie’s mouth goes dry and he realises he’s made a huge mistake. There’s no way he can sever their ties now.

As Armie struggles to come to terms with what really seeing Timmy for the first time means, he also notes the hollowness of his eyes, the gaunt skin pulled tight across his cheekbones, his too-pale skin for anyone in California for any length of time. The skeletal protrusion of his shoulders beneath his hoodie.

_ “You can’t be digging food out of the trash.” _

Armie feels sick to his stomach.

“Can I get you all something to drink?” The waitress, probably mid-50s asks with the general lack of concern for a person who hates their job.

“You want a coffee? Soda?” Armie asks Timmy, keeping his head down to avoid being recognised. It's a hard habit to break.

“Water’s fine,” Timmy  shrugs and Armie’s fingers tighten around the menu he holds in his hand.

“He’ll have a soda and I’ll have a coffee, black. And you might as well take our order while you’re here.” Armie’s not even going to give Timmy the chance to say he doesn’t want anything because he knows he will. “We’ll both have the double cheeseburger and fries. And let’s get an order of banana pancakes and he’ll have a,” Armie looks at Timmy, deciding. “Yeah, bring him a large chocolate shake with extra whipped cream.”

Timmy looks at Armie like he’s an idiot. Armie’s answering grin is wide and facetious and not at all anything resembling  happy.

Timmy luckily waits until the waitress leaves to put in their order before speaking.

“Guess this means you’re finally going to let me choke on that cock of yours, huh?”

_ A frail bird with a loud chirp. _ It’s all Armie can think of as the words Timmy’s just spewed at him, hit their mark.

“ _ Jesus _ . What the fuck?  _ No. _ ”

“Riiiiight,” Timmy sits back in his seat, spreading his arms out over the back as he licks his lips, shifting his pelvis forward. “You want me to sit on it? Want to split me wide open,  hear me scream as you shove it-”

_ “Would you shut the fuck up _ !” Armie’s so done, he could give two shits if the other patrons hear him or not. He’s not going to sit there- “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and take that bullshit from you. What the fuck? Have I  _ ever _ done anything to make you think  _ that _ is what I want from you?”

“What  _ do  _ you want from me?” Timmy suddenly rushes forward, leaning over the table, practically vibrating with anger, his eyes shining with pent up frustration. “ _ Why  _ are you HERE? Night after night. You’re here and you don’t  _ ask  _ me for anything. I don’t- I can’t-” Timmy looks away, swiping a hand angrily over his eyes.

Armie watches Timmy’s chest rise and fall, struggling to calm his breathing; fighting  _ so hard  _ to stay in control— above it all. Something aches—  _ longs—  _ within Armie to reach across the table, to lay his hand on top of Timmy’s, some sort of contact, some sort of comfort. Instead he balls his hands into fists and keeps them in his lap.

Timmy’s question hits too close to home and Armie isn’t prepared to unpack any of that yet.

“Where’s your backpack? I’ve never seen you without it,” Armie is afraid he’s spoken too quietly to be heard until Timmy closes his eyes.

His mouth works to say something, but before he can, the waitress arrives with their drinks. Armie gives a perfunctory thanks but doesn’t take his eyes off Timmy.

Timmy slides the glass of soda forward, close to the edge of the table and bends down over the straw to take one long sip after another. Half the soda is gone before he sits back up again.

“On my way back ho- to where I stay this morning, some guys thought they needed it more than me.”

“Jesus, you were robbed? Are you okay?”

Another shrug. “They knocked me around a bit, but were happy to take the bag and go, but the joke’s on them.”

Armie can't help but  scrunch his face up in confusion. “How so?”

“Since I’ve been otherwise  _ occupied _ this week, there was only a couple of dollars in it. I’m more pissed they got my headphones.”

Armie sits back in his seat like someone’s just shoved him. His mind reels, images of the past week sifting through  his brain. How had he not realised? Since the night he had given Armie his name, after he’d sent the driver of that car away, there hadn’t been a single night when Timmy had left him to be with someone else. All week, Timmy had spent the entirety of his nights with Armie, foregoing his ‘job’ against his personal best interests— like money for food.

“Fuck, why didn’t you  _ say  _ something?” Armie’s reaching for his wallet when Timmy slams his glass on the table.

“You don’t want my fucking  _ services _ , I don’t want your fucking money, asshole. I’m not the goddamn charity case you were trying to sell to the cops. So fuck you.”

Timmy goes to slide out of the booth, but Armie grabs his wrist, holding him in place. It’s merely a gesture, to keep him from leaving, but the moment he touches him, it’s too late.

They both stare at Armie’s too-big hand wrapped around Timmy’s fragile, delicate wrist. Armie immediately flushes white-hot and he can see Timmy’s mouth working open and closed in his peripheral vision.

Something  _ clicks _ and Armie utters a firm, “Sit” and Timmy sinks back down like his strings have been cut.

_ Oh god. _

Suddenly, there is a weight, heavy and solid, sitting low in his pelvis. Armie breathes, swallows, revels in the crackling energy sparking from the palm of his hand where it touches Timmy’s wrist. He tightens his grip infinitesimally, can feel the knob of his ulna press against his palm, the throb of his pulse against his thumb. Timmy gasps and Armie looks up, caught by the  vulnerability in Timmy’s pupil-blown eyes.

The moment stretches and Armie is seized with the fear that something is about to snap.

“Here you go, boys,” the waitress chimes in, oblivious to the tension oozing between her customers.

Armie reluctantly removes his hand, taking certain thrill from the fact Timmy wraps his own around where Armie's had just been as the food is placed in front of them.  The waitress adds a  _ ‘let me know if you need anything’ _ before leaving them to it.

“Eat,” the command is soft but firm as Armie slides the milkshake closer to Timmy’s plate.

He knows Timmy wants to say something but he just stares at him. His hair flopping over one eye in the most endearing way it makes Armie’s teeth hurt. It’s all he can do to keep from reaching over, pushing it aside so he can see Timmy’s eyes. As if he read his mind, Timmy pushes the stray lock behind his ear and grabs the ketchup.

Armie’s captivated by Timmy's  every move and knows he’s in  _ serious _ trouble. What can he do? There is an uncontrollable need to  _ care  _ for him and that can’t be wrong, can it? How could it be? Is it not what any decent person would do when they found someone who needed help?

Armie wants to convince himself it is merely an act of kindness, not of charity which seems to offend Timmy so badly, but of human decency. However it is the still warm and syrupy feeling throbbing in his lap that tells him otherwise.

_ He is so fucked. _

Timmy removes the tomato from his burger. Armie watches with barely contained mirth as he holds it between two fingers like it’s contaminated, his face a study in disgust as he places it on the side of his plate, making sure it doesn’t touch any of his fries. Armie’s mouth twitches, fighting to keep from laughing, bemused by this precious quirk, as Timmy then covers the burger and fries  in ketchup.

“You know, ketchup is made from tomatoes,” Armie offers for no reason other than to tease and hopefully lighten the mood.

Timmy’s shoves at least five fries into his mouth at the one time. “True, but it’s also made with sugar. Lots of sugar,” he smiles around his mouth full of food. “Tomatoes are disgusting. They’re half-done, like god got sidetracked and half-assed it.” Timmy dunks a fry into his milkshake and Armie quirks a brow.

“And  _ that’s _ not disgusting?” Armie can’t help but tease, though he is more than a little grossed out by the combination.

“What? You’ve never tried it?”

Armie shakes his head.

“What a sheltered life you’ve led, Mr Hammer,” Timmy teases, inspecting his pile of fries and picking up one not covered in ketchup.

If Timmy only knew how true that statement is. Or perhaps he does.

“It’s the perfect combination. Salty and sweet,” he dunks it into the milkshake and after pulling it out, holds it over for Armie to try.

It is another super-charged moment as their eyes lock across the formica-topped table. Armie swallows and leans in as Timmy places the fry in Armie’s mouth. Armie forces himself to look away as Timmy licks his fingers.

It is an unusual combination but not as off-putting as Armie initially thought it would be. The salt counter-balancing the cloying sweetness of the milkshake.

“What do you think?” Timmy speaks around a mouth full of cheeseburger.

“Not bad,” Armie admits, only half as interested in eating his own as he is of watching Timmy eat his.

They settle into a comfortable silence, but Armie’s mind is screaming. So many things and thoughts and they all hover and spin around the boy sitting across from him. The burger he’s just eaten sits like lead in the pit of his stomach. He watches Timmy practically inhale the food in front of him and it  _ kills _ Armie. He was eating food out of the fucking garbage. This beautiful, intelligent angelic man-child living like a dog and Armie can’t stand it. Everything in Armie yearns to take care of him, and Armie thinks— hopes,  _ prays—  _ he saw a glimmer of that desire reciprocated in Timmy earlier. The moment Armie had been firm with him, Timmy had responded like it was his second nature.

The thought makes Armie’s heart thunder in his chest. It’s a gamble, if he’s got it wrong, the whole thing could blow up in his face, but- But he knows he will regret it for the rest of his days if he doesn’t take the chance.

Here and now.

Armie waits until Timmy’s halfway through a short stack of banana pancakes before he slides his own plate to the side and places his elbows on the table.

“So,” he clears his throat. “What is your going rate?”  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been unbelievable. I can't thank all of you enough. I know I am way behind on responding to comments, but I promise I will get to them soon.
> 
> xoxo


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I forget to mention this is a slooooow burn? ;)

 

_ “So,” he clears his throat. “What is your going rate?” _

Armie immediately looks away, panic rising, his question like a bomb ticking too loudly on the table between them. With unsteady hands, he reaches for his phone and sends a quick text before shoving it back into the pocket of his running shorts.

Once he calms enough to look up, Timmy is smirking round an over-stuffed mouthful of pancake. Armie struggles to maintain a semblance of, if not control, then levity. He knows what he’s just asked and what Timmy believes it to mean, so for the moment Armie knows it’s merely best to let this play out. His fear of pushing Timmy too far, of inadvertently forcing him to bolt, is real and the last thing Armie wants in this moment.

All Armie can do is drum his fingers on the tabletop and wait for Timmy to finish eating and the bomb to either explode or prove to be a dud.

This wraith of a boy  manages to clean his plate in three inhumanly large bites. If the tension of the silence between them wasn’t thick enough to cut with a knife (and if Armie’s stomach wasn’t tied in knots over the fact he’s just asked a rentboy how much he charges) he might have been impressed with how this kid could put away food.

_ Starvation is a terrible motivator. _

Armie stifles a shudderous wave of guilt once more and folds and re-folds his napkin on the tabletop, waiting, waiting.

Timmy’s eyes are laser-focused on Armie, almost daring him to look away, as he sucks down the last of his soda in one long draw of the straw. The slurp when his glass is empty seems to go on forever, and is too loud in the near-empty diner. The sound makes Armie flinch as he nervously looks around. The one customer left at the counter pays no attention at all and something like relief relaxes the tense line of his shoulders for a moment.

Timmy continues to stare at Armie but doesn’t say a word. It’s the silence from him that is making all the hair on Armie’s arms stand on end, as if he’s too close to an electrical field; in the path of a lightning strike, waiting for the inevitable to burn him from the inside out. His gaze is only diverted once the waitress sits another soda in front of Timmy and clears their empty plates away.

“Anything else I can get for you?”

Armie quickly answers, not looking up, still hoping to get through this evening with no one recognising him. “Just the check, please.”

With a quick ‘sure thing’ she leaves and Armie dares to look back at Timmy once more. He’s wiping his mouth with a sense of decorum that belies his current state of living and Armie narrows his eyes as he watches. It isn’t an affected mannerism and Armie adds it to the ever-growing list of mysterious characteristics he’s gleaned from watching Timmy these past few nights.  

“My ‘going rate’? You really never have done this before, have you?” Timmy neatly places his napkin to the side before leaning over, propped on his elbows. His clasped hands rest on the table and Armie watches, mesmerised as his thumb rubs back and forth across the top of his hand. A nervous gesture.

When Timmy speaks his voice is low, provocative, he tilts his head and looks up at Armie  through his lashes, the very idea of seduction. Armie feels like he swallows a mouthful of sand.

“I’ve more than an idea of what you’re packing there, Mr Hammer,” his eyes fall to the area of Armie’s lap as if he can see past the table and Armie’s shorts.  “I may have to add pain and suffering to the price.”

Armie can feel the war in his blood, whether to rush north or south but it comes to an easy compromise as he feels the slow thudding pulse of his own heartbeat in his lap and the warmth of the flush bloom across his face. That’s the one thing he’s never been able to learn how to control. With all his acting prowess he is still victim of his own body’s reactions. The embarrassment in the realisation just exacerbates the problem. A fucking ouroboros he can never escape.

“Okay, listen-” Armie means to end the whole thing before it can devolve but Timmy won’t be stopped.

“I mean, there is a sliding scale. A handie is my least costly  _ service  _ but I’m sure that isn’t a consideration with a big time  _ movie star _ like yourself.”

Armie laughs bitterly. “You could get way more for simply selling the story that I even  _ asked _ to the  _ Insider  _ or some shit. Give me a break.”

Timmy sits back, crossing his arms over his chest. “True. But where’s the fun in that?”

Armie’s laugh is bitter and he looks away, out the window, into the darkness just beyond the light of the diner’s neon sign. “Listen, I’m not- This is all just semantics. All I want to know is what you would  _ normally  _ make on a… on a  _ good _ night. Ballpark.”

Timmy chews on the string of his hoodie. “A  _ good  _ night? Wow, Hammer, that is a tough call. Let’s see, I made a couple hundred one night when I let two dudes stick their cocks in me at the same time.  _ OR  _  there was the night I was the inadvertent center of a gang bang. That one left me flush for cash so I could afford to take a few days  _ off  _ to recuperate. You see?  _ Semantics  _ are everything.”

Armie blanches, ruined by the images that now crowd his mind. There is a horrible burning sensation at the back of his eyes and it feels like someone has shoved a fist down his throat.

He’s grateful the waitress returns with the check so that he can focus on something else. He pulls cash from his wallet, throwing it on the table at the same moment he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

“Let’s go,” if Armie’s voice is more than a little rough around the edges, he ignores it as he slides out of the booth and walks to the door. He only hopes Timmy follows because he can’t look back. He can’t look at him. Not right now.

The car he ordered sits idling at the curb and he quickly climbs in the back seat, sliding over to make room for Timmy who hesitates a moment  before getting in and slamming the door behind him.

It’s Armie’s usual car service so he doesn’t have to worry with giving an address but he does request one stop on their way. Timmy only quirks a brow before turning back to stare out the window.

The silence is oppressive, but Armie is grateful it stays that way until they arrive at his place. Last thing he needs is Timmy saying something incriminating for the driver to overhear.

Armie tips the driver entirely too much and thanks him as he replies with a pleasant, ‘ _ have a goodnight, sir’ _ .

Outside the car, the air smells of brine and the sound of ceaseless waves makes everything feel cushioned, cocooned. Timmy stands on the sidewalk, staring at the facade of Armie’s home as Armie walks around the car and heads up the lighted pathway to the front door. He motions with a quick lift of his chin for Timmy to follow.

He enters the code to his security system, unlocks the door and stands back to allow Timmy to enter ahead of him.

Armie tries to go about his normal routine of returning home. He drops his phone and his keys on a console table by the door and ignores the flutter in his stomach to see Timmy standing there, in the entryway of his house. He slides his shoes off and Timmy turns his head, watches as Armie places them to the side of the stairs before removing his own.

Archie comes bounding down the stairs, more than likely having been sleeping in Armie’s bed. Armie barely manages more than a pat on his head before he beelines for Timmy, sniffing and jumping at his leg.

“You have a dog.”

It’s not a question but seems an oddly endearing statement, as if the idea of having a pet is something Timmy never could have imagined. It hits Armie in the very center of his chest— the thought that maybe at one point this boy had a pet of his own, that maybe he misses that pet or wishes his circumstance now could afford him one.

Armie’s mouth opens and closes, tongue-tied and heart aching, he can only nod as Archie continues to get over-excited by the unexpected stranger now in their house.

“Archie, down,” Armie commands and the dog sits immediately, panting at Timmy’s feet.

“What a good boy,” Timmy croons, leaning down slowly, leading with his hand and letting Archie scent him before rubbing and petting him in earnest. He mumbles sweetly to him, rubbing his ears and Armie can see Archie practically fall in love before his eyes.

Once Archie’s had enough, he bounds off for the sitting room. Timmy’s smile is incandescent and Armie has to look away.

“So,” Timmy offers, almost awkwardly as if the continued silence is too much for him as well. Something in the air shifts as he steps closer to Armie— too close with those eyes that  see too much and a close-lipped smile that reveals nothing in return— looking up at him expectantly.

Armie has never been nervous in his life. He’s a performer. It’s safe to say he practically gets off on being the center of attention. It’s hard to go through life as big as he is physically, as well-known as he is personally, only to quell under anyone’s attention. So to suddenly feel diminished by the mere weight of the gaze this boy gives him knocks him  for a loop.

“Yeah, so,” Armie’s clears his throat, inwardly frustrated with how pathetic he sounds. “You want another soda? A beer?”

Armie walks down the hallway, past his office and into his spacious kitchen. Outside the sliding glass doors, the pool glows blue.

“A beer, please,” Timmy’s voice is soft as he replies with genuine politeness.  Armie hears the patio door slide open as he reaches into the fridge to retrieve their drinks.

When Armie makes his way outside, with an open bottle in each hand, it takes everything in him not to stop and stare. Timmy stands beside the pool. He looks otherworldly in the wavering, refracted light  of the pool— his skin glows ethereally pale, his hair a dark mass of writhing curls.

The sight of him has Armie’s fingers tightening around the neck of the bottles, his step faltering for a second. He clears his throat as he approaches.

“Thanks,” Timmy’s smile is small but genuine and it causes something to unfurl deep inside Armie. He passes the beer over and he swears Timmy’s fingers brush against his own on purpose.

They stand there, side by side, sipping and staring at the wavering light of the pool. The air is warm, humid with ocean spray. Armie notes the curls of Timmy’s hair seem tighter, more abundant as they sway in the gentle breeze.

“Is it heated?” Timmy finally asks, breaking the silence and bringing Armie back from that place where his hands want to have a mind of their own.

He takes a long pull of beer and nods. “Umm, yeah. I keep it right around 88 degrees.”

“Nice,” Timmy offers nothing more, sipping his beer before setting it down on the table behind them.

Armie moves, thinking he means to sit down, but stops short as Timmy reaches behind his neck and pulls his hoodie off. Underneath he wears a retro Talking Heads t-shirt. Armie almost assumed  it was merely a reproduction but the wear of it— the over-stretched neck and tattered hem— seems more than enough proof that it is truly vintage.

It soon follows suit, pulled off and leaving his hair an even more messy riot that he pushes back out of his face as if it were merely an afterthought, and he bends over to pull off his socks. He’s leaned forward, facing Armie, giving him the perfect view of the back of his long neck,  the sloping angle of his spine. Each bump of his vertebrae pronounced beneath the smooth pale skin of his back.

Armie swallows and swears the sound echoes back to him from the surface of the water.

“What are you doing?” It’s a dumb question but Armie’s brain seems to be malfunctioning as Timmy stands up, reaching for the fastening of his jeans.

Before he can hold himself in check, Armie’s  eyes drift to Timmy’s chest, his small rosy nipples, the lack of chest hair, the concave perfection of his abdomen and he has to force his eyes to look away, not trusting himself to keep watching as Timmy strips down to his underwear.

“Swimming,” he chirps before spinning away and flinging himself over the edge, landing with a whoop and a splash that soaks his clothes where they lay in a pile on the pool deck.

He surfaces, pushing his hands through his hair, slicking it back from his forehead. He glides through the water and props his crossed arms on the deck at Armie’s feet. Looking up at Armie, the water caught in his lashes, clinging, shining like diamonds, takes his breath away. Timmy swipes his hand across his face, his smile crooked for a second before licking his lips.

“What are you waiting for?” He flicks water at Armie’s toes.

There is a split second that Armie considers stripping down to nothing and jumping in. He imagines the warm water enveloping him, suspended and carefree, before pressing himself against Timmy, feeling their naked wet flesh meld into one. The temptation is terrifying.

Armie takes a step back. “I’m good. Think I’ll just go take a quick shower,” he motions half-heartedly to the clothes he’s wearing with a wave of his hand, his shirt and shorts stiff with dried sweat.

“Suit yourself,” Timmy shrugs, pushing himself back from the edge and diving beneath the surface with a kick and a splash.

Armie makes a hasty retreat, terrified of falling in. Knowing full-well he’s already in over his head.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

 

Armie’s head hangs between his shoulders where he  stands naked in front of the mirror above his bathroom vanity. Leaning on the palms, he can feel the water  drip from the ends of his wet hair, falling onto the backs of his hands; can feel the droplets slowly roll down his back, his thighs, a growing puddle on the floor beneath his feet. He’s grateful for the condensation marring his reflection hiding the truth of what he’s just done while in the shower. The shame of the quick wank he just forced on himself surely written in the flush of his cheekbones and the glassy-eyed gaze of satiation.

_What the fuck is he doing?_

He pushes off the counter with a groan, grabs a towel from the rack as he makes a cursory, half-assed attempt at drying himself. In his bedroom, he quickly pulls on sweats and fights with a tee that sticks uncomfortably to the damp skin of his back, amping up his irritation as he struggles to pull it into place. There’s no clear answer to his need to rush; uncertain if he’s _more_ afraid Timmy may have taken off while he showered, or that he’ll find him right where he left him.

Ignoring the fluttery nervousness that leaves his fingers trembling, Armie gathers up a dry towel and, before he can think too much about it, grabs his bathrobe from where it hangs on the bathroom door and makes his way back downstairs.

He makes a small detour through the living room before taking a deep breath and stepping outside. Armie is terrified of the relief he feels to find Timmy still there.

Timmy sits on the side of the pool, feet dangling in the water, idly kicking back and forth as he smokes, knocking ash into the mouth of his now-empty beer bottle. He holds the cigarette between his lips, turns his head and watches Armie make his way over to him with narrow eyes. Armie suppresses the urge to turn away from Timmy’s knowing gaze.

“Feel better?” Timmy smirks, his insinuation plainly clear as he takes a deep drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke roll out of his mouth and immediately sucked back in through his nose.

Armie’s grin is tight and he patently ignores the jab. _Of course Timmy knows what he’s been up to in the shower._

“I’m clean at least,” he volleys like he isn’t wishing the ground would open up and swallow him, tossing the towel over where it lands in Timmy’s lap.

“Pity,” Timmy smirks, and sets his bottle down beside him. He runs the towel over his shoulders, across his chest before scrubbing at his hair.

Armie stops at Timmy’s side, hovering over him and reaches down to take the cigarette from his hand. Along Timmy's arms, Armie can see a trail of goosebumps, the dark hair of his arms standing on end. Armie’s certain it’s only because his skin is damp and air has a chill, refuses to think his proximity could have any sort of influence on his response. He holds the robe out for him to use as he brings the cigarette to his mouth.  The first hot breath of smoke fills his chest, relieved as the flood of nicotine curbs his anxiety, at least for the moment.

“Thanks,” Timmy takes it from him and stands in one graceful, fluid movement.

Armie struggles to keep his eyes level, but peripheral vision is a bitch and Armie swallows dryly, trying not to spontaneously combust and thankful he’d had the unplanned foresight to get himself off five minutes earlier.

Timmy’s grey boxer briefs are darkened from the water, near-black, clinging like a second skin that leaves nothing to the imagination. But there’s not a whole lot which Armie has to imagine, or time to do it, because it’s immediately replaced  with first-hand knowledge.

Daring Armie to look away, Timmy holds his gaze, his mouth curling up on one side. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, and Armie knows he couldn’t look away if he had to as Timmy slowly moves his hands to his waist, as he pulls his underwear down, bending to slide them off one leg then the other. Armie is stunned by his force of will, by his ability to stop himself from letting his eyes drop and take in every naked inch of flesh standing in front of him.

But just because Armie doesn’t _look_ , doesn’t mean he can’t _see_ the overall impression of the ivory perfection of Timmy’s torso and thighs where they glow luminous in the low light of the swimming pool, bisected by the dark shadow of hair between his legs.

He’s determined not to give Timmy the satisfaction and so,  adamantly refuses to blink, look down or away while simultaneously ignoring his mind as it screams for him to _look, he wants you to, you_ **_know_ ** _you want to, Armie. His cock is_ **_right there!_ **

Once it’s apparent Armie isn’t going to rise to the bait, Timmy  swings the robe around his shoulders, making slow work of folding the front halves together, eventually hiding himself from Armie’s view,  before cinching it tightly around his waist.

It’s about ten sizes too big and swallows him like a blanket, the sleeves covering his hands, the collar hanging off one pale, slender shoulder. Again, it’s a study in control as Armie works to ignore the visceral reaction he has to seeing Timmy wearing something that belongs to him. Thinking about how their scents will combine in the soft fibres of cotton, that the fabric now caresses and covers Timmy's naked skin where it once touched and covered Armie’s.  Judging by the look in Timmy’s wide green eyes, he knows exactly what Armie is thinking and that the vision he now projects, and its effect, are not lost on Armie. The air around them suddenly crackles with electricity; with possibility and Armie realises what a mistake it was to have brought Timmy here, to his home.

A line has been crossed. Timmy is no longer the mystery of that dark half-life Armie’s been treading for the past week. But he stands now, corporeal in Armie’s backyard— a very real entity, waiting for Armie to reach out and touch. To claim.

Armie knows there is no going back now but he has no idea how to move forward.

How did this happen? In the few hours each night they've spent together somehow Timmy presence in Armie's life has become paramount to his well-being. There is absolutely no denying Armie wants Timmy; that he covets him as something precious and tender, in spite of his rough-hewn exterior. He has since that first encounter when Timmy was still ignorant of Armie’s existence on the empty sidewalk beside him. 

But for all Armie’s desire to somehow protect or provide for Timmy’s well-being, he can’t deny the darker thoughts that also plagues his mind; the images of unspeakable acts he wants to indulge in _with_ Timmy. He hates himself for them but remains unable to banish them. It’s the first time in his life he’s ever allowed these types of thoughts to take up so much real estate in his mind, his imagination.

It’s always been a struggle to keep himself in check. He had hopes when he married Liz, that settling down would calm that part of him— _tame_ him. But it had only festered, cultivating an unhealthy barrier between himself and the woman he thought he would spend the rest of his life with; the mother of his children.

The truth of Armie’s hidden, deep, questionable desires (proclivities), if ever known or allowed to manifest,  would leave most people clutching their pearls. What Armie has come to realise in allowing these thoughts now to circle around Timmy is that it isn’t _only_ about what he wants to _do_ to a person— well, not all of it. It’s that he wants someone to _share_ the experience with. Someone who may, at times, acquiesce to his demands but will also stand their ground against him and give as good as they got.

Throughout his life, the idea he could find that with another man has always haunted him. The idea of someone with strength enough to hold their own, with a hard, tight body as opposed to softness and curves, it was all a jumbled mess in his head. Any moment i the past where he felt drawn to merely entertain the idea had always been shut down, drowned out, by the puritanical teachings of his mother from childhood. The certainty in knowing the hellfire and brimstone would rain down on him at any moment if he so much as _thought_ to take a second glance at a teammate in the shower after a high school football game, or entertained the idea of cruising the seedier streets of LA.

The crux of his predicament now with Timmy is that Armie doesn’t want to _pay_ for it; pay for love or acceptance or the willingness of a partner.  He’s paid his whole life— by conforming to a mother’s stringent beliefs that left him forced into a box he could never fit; and to a wife that only cared for image and the lifestyle his money could afford.

He has twisted and contorted himself into something he no longer recognises. Always the largest person in the room, but somehow remaining invisible. Until one night, the green eyes staring at him now saw him. Saw through the smoke and mirrors of a man lost in his own life.

Armie takes cold comfort in the fact he _hadn’t_ gone looking for any of the things that his dark heart desires, but somehow still managed to literally _run_ right into the middle of it in spite of his best intentions. He doesn’t want to believe in fate or kismet, but having Timmy dropped into his life feels as if there is no other explanation.

Armie wants Timmy with a hunger that is slowly eating him alive, but the fear he will ruin the boy standing in front of him is so very real.

He wants to convince himself Timmy would be better off to disappear into the night;  better off to walk alone, to stay as far away from him as he can. Armie’s painfully aware of the restrictions his career places on his ability to live his life as he might want. That, if he were to manage to even _summon_ the courage it would take to live his authentic life, it would be disastrous, personally and financially. His family (mother) would never understand, or accept it. Liz would see it as one more defect in his already questionable frontal lobe and would no doubt use it against him in one way or another. Guaranteed career suicide— though, Armie is certain that won’t be a worry for much longer, not after the upcoming fiasco.

But for all his anxiety and his concern for self-preservation, the idea of leaving Timmy to continue to endure the life he now leads— understanding in graphic detail now what all it entails when he’s _not_ spending his ‘working’ hours with Armie— haunts him. What does he do when he can’t leave him but he can’t save him either?

Or can he? Armie knows his common sense is being overridden by an idea that could topple his entire house of cards irrevocably but he doesn’t fight it. He can’t because this choice, this decision, feels as inevitable as the tide.

A tremor runs through Armie’s body as he mentally shakes himself back to the present, scrubbing his hands up and down his arms. Timmy stands in front of him, head tilted, eyes dark and unreadable.

“It’s gotten chilly out here. I know you must be frozen. How ‘bout we go back in and- and watch a film.”

Armie knows his question sounds more like a set-up and his stomach roils.

Timmy’s brow furrows. “A film?” His face does something Armie can’t quite comprehend, about fourteen different emotions happening almost simultaneously before it splits into a wide, feral grin, as if Armie’s just suggested the greatest idea he’s ever heard. Timmy obviously believing Armie is ready to finally get to the _reason_ he’s brought Timmy home in the first place.

Armie feels sick for the misdirection.

“Yeah, I thought maybe we could watch something, anything. Your choice,” Armie knows he sounds entirely too fake, too cheerful, as if they are the best of bros, but it’s all he can manage in the moment.

“Sure, whatever you want.” Timmy pauses a second. “You know that, right?” His voice soft as a caress.

Armie swallows hard, fighting, resisting the urge to succumb. “Great, yeah,” Armie claps his hands together. “Grab your clothes, we can put them in the dryer, if you want.”

Armie doesn’t want to believe there is a flash of uncertainty for a moment in Timmy’s eyes, so he turns and heads back into the house.

“Sure, okay.”

And if disappointment laces thickly through Timmy’s words, Armie turns a deaf ear.

He stands at the sliding glass door, and waits for Timmy to gather his clothes and takes them from him as he crosses the threshold.

“Head on into the living room. I’ll just put these in the dryer for you.”

Timmy chews his bottom lip before nodding and sloping off across the kitchen in the opposite direction as Armie prays he’s not about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

“Do you want another beer?” Armie calls from the kitchen, grabbing himself another out of the fridge. Twisting off the cap, he stands at the kitchen island, downing a third of the bottle in long pull.

When no response comes, he assumes Timmy hasn’t heard so he walks across the hall, rounding the corner as he crosses the threshold into the living room and freezes with the bottle halfway to his mouth.

Armie feels as if he's just stepped through the looking glass because he's certain what his eyes are telling him he sees has to be some bizarre alternate universe.

On the coffee table is the money Armie withdrew earlier from the ATM. He’s asked the driver to stop on their way. He had been hoping for the chance to ease into a conversation. It was why he had suggested watching some TV. They could sit, relax, hopefully get to that place of comfort they’d so easily shared the other nights previously, but was much harder to come by with Timmy, here, in his home.  Perhaps it have been foolish to leave the money  _ there _ just lying about. Armie understood the implication, but never dreamed this would be the outcome, because, instead of the neat pile he left it in, it now sits in smaller stacks lined up across the surface of the table and sitting in the floor beside it is Timmy— naked, head down.

Armie’s brain immediately starts churning with phrases he’s heard but never known anyone to actually personify— pale as the moon, skin like cream, alabaster, marble. There is something other-worldly in the unblemished in the perfection of narrow shoulders, long slender arms. His chest is smooth, hairless; his nipples are the colour of his lips, coral red, small, round and piqued in the chill of the air. Armie can count his ribs from where he stands, notices the concavity of his stomach, redoubling his earlier guilt over Timmy’s normal living conditions.

Armie feels depraved, his aching, dry. He can’t stop his eyes from traveling down, past Timmy’s stomach. His mouth is dry and he swallows hard seeing Timmy’s cock, soft and vulnerable, lying nestled amongst the thatch of dark pubic hair between long, narrow thighs.

Archie lies beside him, pressed against his side. It’s ridiculous, Armie knows, but he can’t help but imagine Archie there, trying in his own way to give Timmy some sort of comfort and support. Timmy has one hand on the back of Archie's neck, neither stroking nor petting, grounding him. Seeing his slender wrist resting against the leather of Archie’s collar tugs at something deep in Armie’s lizard brain and he has to shut that train of thought down immediately.

Timmy’s other hand lies resting palm up on his smooth thigh and even though Armie is on the other side of the room, he is still able to detect the fine tremor in the muscle beneath his hand, in his arm stretched across Archie’s back. Armie prays it’s due to the fact he’s sitting naked on the cold floor but knows it’s nothing but the absolute  _ wrongness  _ of the situation.

The entirety of the vision Timmy represents makes Armie's head spin. His reaction is visceral, instantaneous, the thud-thump pulse of blood deep in his belly, sliding lower like the oozing black tar that bubbles, primordial, from the center of earth. Timmy kneeling in front of him, the embodiment of every dark fantasy Armie has ever secretly entertained, serving himself up to a starving man. Armie reels.

_ How could Timmy possibly know? _

“What the fuck?” Armie stutters, choking on the words. He’s stunned right down to his toes.  _ What the fuck. _

“Get up. Oh, my god, what are you-?” Armie knows he’s rushing, has to be moving in an insane mad rush but his movements feel like he’s underwater, some sort of warped reality because he everything moves  in slow motion. He sits the beer down on a side table, grabbing up the robe Timmy had carelessly tossed across the arm of the sofa and stumbles over to Timmy, throwing the robe across his shoulders, desperate to cover him, to shield him.

Armie grabs him by the shoulders, pulling, trying to force him up, but Timmy twists out of his grasp. Archie scrambles away from the scuffle, his nails tap tap tapping as he scurries out of the room.

Timmy sits back on his heels and looks up at Armie. His eyes are empty, dead, like  Armie’s never seen them before and he swallows the bile that rises to the back of his throat, his stomach heaving on itself. He’s frozen to the core.

“Isn’t this what you want?” Timmy’s voice is as hollow as his gaze and Armie looks away, only able to look at him through a side-long gaze, unable to meet his eyes another second. Timmy doesn’t care, barrels on.

“I appreciate the confidence. I mean, that amount of cash speaks of ambition for one night, but I figure for what you’re  _ really  _ after and what you're working with,” his eyes travel, scorching, to Armie's crotch, a brow lifting with a smirk; too cold and calculating. “My price will  _ definitely  _ have to bump up a bit. I’ve doled it out as I imagine you’ll want to use it. The standard rate for fucking is there, of course, though I do charge higher to  _ do _ the fucking. It’s easy enough to lie back and think of England, but a lot harder to keep my head in the game long enough to get the job done, pun intended.”

His words are meant to be a joke but there is nothing funny in his tone. Armie fights the urge to press his hand over Timmy’s mouth, to stop the words that continue to hurl at him, anything to stop him, to shut him up, but Timmy drives on.

“The amenities you’re more likely interested in, such as choking or-” Timmy tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he looks Armie up and down, reading him like a fucking book. Armie stands there, shaking, feeling more exposed than if he were the one naked. He feels as if nothing could get worse until Timmy lifts his chin before slowly raising his wrists, presenting them, pressed together in submission. Armie’s knees threaten to buckle.  “Ah,  _ restraint _ ,” his voice is filled with bitter realisation. “Yeah, that’s gonna have to be extra. And, kissing’s not usually my thing but I figure it might ease a certain degree of uneasiness on your part if you can cling to some sense of  _ normality _ in the exchange, so I’ve allo-”

“SHUT UP!” Armie roars, unable to bear one more second of Timmy’s evisceration. “Just shut the fuck up. You don’t-” he swallows hard, head falling back on his shoulders, looking at the ceiling, anywhere but at Timmy and those eyes that are  _ killing _ him. “You don’t know me. You don’t have a fucking  _ clue _ -”

“ _Don’t I_?” Timmy bites back, sharp and quick. “What was that earlier, at the diner, huh? You were half hard the moment you wrapped your fingers around my wrist. I'm not stupid. I felt it. I _know_ what that means, trust me. So tell me, _la muvi star_ , what have I gotten wrong here?” Armie pales as Timmy's voice cracks. “I come in here to a stack of fucking _money_. It doesn’t take a goddamn _rocket_ _scientist_ to figure out your game. You’re just like everyone else.”

It’s Timmy’s turn to look away and that hurts Armie worse than anything he’s said up to this point.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Armie shoves his hands back through his hair, turns before collapsing onto the sofa.

What was he thinking? He should have known this would all blow up in his face.

They’re both silent, nothing but their harsh and heavy breathing between them for too long until Armie can’t take it any longer.

“Please,” the word is strained, stretched tight through Armie’s vocal cords. He clears his throat. “Just. Please, get up. I can't-”

Timmy’s breath shudders before he slowly slides his arms back in the sleeves of the robe, pulling it tight around his torso, getting to his feet in one graceful move. Silently, he moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch as far from Armie as physically possible.

Armie is at a complete loss as to how to move forward. The silence, unbearable, until he’s finally spared when Timmy starts to say something, his voice rough. “If I could just get… all I need is bus fare and I’ll be out of here.”

He’s not looking at Armie, but staring at the floor between his feet. Armie knows it takes every ounce of pride he has left to request help to get out of there, amplifying Armie’s guilt. He looks so small and broken, shoved into the corner of the sofa, trying to take up as little space as possible. Armie feels himself crack in two.

Wilting with a heavy sigh, Armie's head thumps on the back of the sofa and he stares, blindly, at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath, holding it in his chest until it screams for mercy. He exhales with a groan.

“Could we maybe, I don’t know. Start over here? Let me explain. Please?” His head rolls to the side, looking to Timmy who still doesn’t look up, but sits perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to flee any moment. “I mean, I’ll call you a cab if you really want to leave because I don’t want you to think you don’t have a choice here, but-” Armie shifts his head, trying to catch Timmy’s eyes in his downcast face. “I really don’t want you to go, but not because I want to- to fuck you. So, maybe we could, I don’t know, just talk about this?” Armie makes a sweeping gesture to the money on the table.

Timmy shrugs and it’s so endearingly insolent, Armie’s misplaced anger starts to melt away.

“I didn't-" Armie sits back up, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen, I swear to God, I never had any salacious intentions for that money.” That isn’t a lie, not really.

Timmy's eyes shift his direction and Armie rushes to continue, knowing this will more than likely be his one shot to state his case, hoping to keep Timmy’s interest long enough to get this all out  while managing not to say the wrong thing.

“It was all I could manage to get tonight, and while I’m not sure how much you would  _ normally _ get for-” he flaps his hand in the air in order to keep from having to actually say the words. “You spent this whole week with me, giving up your livelihood and I thought-, Well, I thought I could offer a settlement, like back pay for the week and, I that maybe going forward, we could work out some sort of weekly stipend-”

“Wait. What?”

Armie ignores Timmy’s incredulousness. Now that he’s started, he can’t—  _ won’t _ — stop until he’s finished.

“Like I said, it absolutely would require nothing of you…  _ intimately _ ,” with that half truth, Armie’s tongue grows thick in his mouth and he swallows hard, convinced it will be just as easy to swallow his darker thoughts, keep them hidden, that Timmy will never have to know.

He scrubs a hand over his face. "But, look, I’ve got this big house. It’s just me and Archie, my kids every other weekend. You could come and go as you pleased, pursue whatever it is you  _ want _ to do instead of what you  _ have  _ to do to get by. I could take care of everything and you wouldn’t have to worry about assholes taking your shit, or where your next meal will come from, or-”

He runs out of steam, falling silent as he garners the courage to finally look at Timmy, who sits there, staring at Armie, mouth open. Armie can’t read the expression on his face, can’t tell what he’s thinking and his stomach is so twisted he feels like he could vomit, would definitely feel better if he  _ did. _

The silence stretches. Timmy’s eyes flutter and it’s as if Armie can actually watch as his mind races. Timmy sucks a quick breath in between his teeth before bursting out laughing.

“What?” Armie feels raw and oddly wounded as Timmy continues to laugh, doubled-over practically in tears.

“Jesus,” Timmy wheezes and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of Armie’s bathrobe. “You are a fuxking piece of work.” He shakes his head, bitterness leaking between every word. “Let me get this straight,” he turns more fully facing Armie, regaining his composure as his eyes turn flinty. “This money,” his hands now animated as he speaks, sweeping in the direction of the table, indicating the guilt-ridden cash lying there.“Is to pay for my  _ time _ over the past week and you want to set up some kind of weekly  _ allowance _ for me, have me stay here? With you and act as, what? Some kind of foster uncle to your  _ kids _ , but, it would require absolutely nothing else of me in return?”

Armie nods, convinced it’s the perfect solution, so proud he can offer this opportunity to  Timmy.

“You’re serious?”

Armie continues to nod, smiles.

Timmy looks away, blinking rapidly before heaving out out a breath. “Right, okay, I’m outta here,” Timmy stands up and Armie tenses, uncertain what Timmy’s tone means. “Where are my clothes?”

“No. Wait. What are you-” Armie’s on his feet in an instant, confused. “Why are yo-”

Timmy laughs bitterly. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me right now? Just get me my fucking clothes, I want out of here, man. Keep your fucking bus fare. I’ll walk if I have to.”  Timmy storms off towards the kitchen, looking for the laundry room. His sudden movement inciting panic and Armie moves quickly, side-stepping the sofa and reaching out for Timmy’s arm.

He freezes, looks at Armie’s hand where it grips his forearm, holding him in place, before cutting his eyes up at Armie. His hair has fallen into his face, a wild mess, still damp, hanging heavy at the ends. He looks like some wild animal and Armie begins to fear his bite.

“Let me go, right. fucking. now.” The chill of Timmy’s tone freezes Armie’s blood in his veins and he drops his hand as if he’s been scalded.

“Please,” Armie takes a step back, knowing that crowding Timmy now isn’t going to help his case at all. “Can we please just- just talk about this. I don’t understand wh-”

“You don’t  _ understand _ ?” Timmy folds in on himself, using the robe as a shield and the idea that Timmy might somehow be afraid or feel threatened is worse than anything Armie’s ever felt before.

“Just because you  _ play  _ at being a hero in the fucking  _ movies _ doesn’t mean I need you to swoop in and save _ me. _ Do you  _ understand  _ that?” His face is red, his voice growing thin. “Yeah, I’m just a fuck boy, but I still deserve some goddamn respect. You can’t-, You can’t just swoop in with your money and your fucking  _ good intentions  _ and think you’re going to be some knight in shining armor here. I don’t  _ need  _ that from you, do you understand me?”

Armie takes a step back from the barrage of words, each one like a blow to the chest. He swallows, struggling, fighting for something to say.

“I didn’t mean- Honest to fucking god, I’m not suggesting that I  _ rescue  _ you, or save you. I know you can manage on your own. I just wanted to help. That’s all.” Armie scrubs a hand up and down his arm. “This week has been- do you know how you have helped  _ me _ ? I hoped… I hoped this could be a two-way street.”

Timmy scoffs, cold and brittle. “Two-way street. How is this set-up anything like that? You  _ pay  _ me to sit and play house with you and do nothing in return? Do you  _ hear  _ yourself, how fucking patronising that shit is? I’m not one of your fucking Hollywood hangers-on, who jump when you say.”

"What the fuck? I don’t know who you think you’re talking about but that’s  _ not _ me. The few  _ friends _ I do have are ones from before I ever  _ became _ a name, so fuck you.”

“Really? Then tell me, _ Armie Hammer _ , these  _ real  _ friends, how many of them know you can’t sleep at night? How many of them know you are scared fucking shitless about this film coming out?” Timmy steps up close, lifting his chin, close enough they are nearly chest to chest. Armie holds his breath. “How many of them know you want to fuck a rentboy while you have him tied up and defenseless? No wonder you’re divorced. Does your ex know what a fucking _ pervert  _ you are?”

Armie shoves him before he knows what he’s done and Timmy stumbles back, somehow managing to stay upright, his face a study in shock.

Armie is shaking, fighting the urge to hit something. He’s so much bigger, stronger, than Timmy; knows it would take nothing to  _ really _ hurt him. He doesn’t want Timmy to become his target— a victim in yet another instance of his life— so Armie moves away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his track pants.

He has no idea what to say. There is no response, not an honest one. Everything Timmy  said, he knows is somehow the truth. No one knows him. Not really. And he hates it. Armie never meant for it to be this way, unclear exactly how it had— isolated and lonely.

“You’re right. No one knows. I don’t even know how _ you  _ know.”

Floor to ceiling windows flank the fireplace of Armie’s living room. He makes his way over to stand, looking past his own shallow reflection to the ocean beyond, black and endless.

Armie isn’t sure how long he’s stood there and knows he probably could have stood there forever if Timmy hadn’t spoken up.

“Sorry,” his voice barely loud enough to hear from where Armie stands.

Armie shrugs and looks at Timmy’s reflection behind him in the glass. Their eyes meet before Armie lifts his hand, pressing it against the cool, smooth surface— the only safe way he knows how to touch Timmy.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twigger warning for child abuse of a sexual nature. All off-screen, but mentioned. Apologies in advance if this upsets anyone and please skip this chapter if that is a possibility. <3

 

_ “ _ _ Sorry.” _

Armie drops his arm to his side and watches as the ghost of his handprint fades from the smooth cool glass. A bitter smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, considering the metaphor more than apt for the day that will undoubtedly come when Timmy forgets him and the absolute mess he’s made of everything.

The room is warm, but it does nothing to stay the chill that settles deep in his bones as Timmy looks away. It matches the weariness that weighs on Armie’s shoulders; the unnamed sadness that aches from the hollow in the gaping center of his chest.

They stand there for long minutes, Armie staring out at the nothing darkness of ocean and empty sky, Timmy with his arms wrapped around his chest as if it’s the only thing holding him together. Armie knows the right thing to do now, in this moment; he should retrieve Timmy’s  clothes, drive him back to wherever he calls home, but he’s terrified to move. His future is so fucking  _ bleak _ he wants to selfishly hold onto this  _ whatever  _ it is between them just a little while longer.

If only he could turn back time, redo every moment of this night and start over. Take that fucking money and throw it into the ocean even though he truly had only the best intentions at heart in the offer, in spite of any other feelings he may secretly harbour. But, it is most definitely in Timmy’s best interest to turn him down. Armie’s life is a trainwreck without the added worry of adding all of this on top of it. There was no sense involving Timmy in it when nothing good could come of it.

Armie imagines the long empty nights ahead of him without the comfort of Timmy’s presence beside him and he feels numb. He can’t even remember how he managed, just a week ago, to get through the endless days and nights before they met. How was there ever a time  _ before Timmy? _

He closes his eyes and clenches his fists, fighting the cold fingers of dread creeping up the back of his neck.

“My parents died when I was six.”

Armie startles, his eyes flying open at the sound of Timmy’s voice, weak and timid, behind him. He doesn’t turn, but looks once more to his reflection in the window. He’s looking Armie’s direction but beyond him, through the window, as if he can see his past there. Armie holds his breath as Timmy continues to speak, straining, determined not to miss a word.

“We were on our way home, driving back to the city from the Hamptons. My sister— her name’s Pauline— we loved the beach. Our parents took us nearly every weekend during summer. I think I remember some things, but I’m never sure anymore if it’s really a memory or something I read in clippings I found in old newspaper reports. All I know is that— it was dark and raining when we were hit head-on by a drunk driver.”

Timmy stops, and Armie can see him swallow, his hand move to rub at the back of his neck.

“I think I was in hospital for two weeks, maybe three? I had hit my head, had a severe concussion, both legs were broken, my arm,” he lifts his right hand and rubs at his left. “My sister must have suffered, too, but I’m not sure. I don’t remember a lot of the time immediately after. My parents— the papers said they were killed on impact.”

Armie feels the pressure of sorrow building in the pit of his stomach. It burns at the back of his eyes, throbs in the hollow of his throat as he imagines Harper and Ford, losing either or both he and Elizabeth. His heart literally breaks for the child he never knew Timmy to be.

“We had no other family. My mom and dad were both only children. It was the reason they had me— they didn’t want my sister to be alone. She’s four years older than me and I think I can still remember how much I worshiped her. I remember she was always playing dress up with me, like I was a fucking doll or something. It was ridiculous,” he shakes his head and laughs in this wholly inconsolable way that tears Armie in two.

His voice is thin and reedy but he keeps going, as if he can’t stop himself now the floodgates have opened.

“By the time I left the hospital, she was already gone, in the system. I was sent to an orphanage in midtown. Was in a wheelchair for months I guess?” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, rubs his hands briskly up and down his arms. “I cried,” his voice breaks and he clears it, the sound loud in the over-quiet room. He flinches. “I cried for Pauline  _ every night _ . They would turn out the lights and it was so  _ dark _ . I remember wanting her to come and crawl in my bed with me like she always did, to tell me stories that only a ten year-old could tell but absolutely fascinated a six year-old. I wanted my bed, and my toys. I wanted my teddy that had somewhere lost its nose overtime but that I loved more than anything. I wanted my mom and dad,” the words barely manage to make it past his throat. “But I never- I never got any of those things. I never saw my sister again.”

“Timmy,” Armie speaks his name like a prayer. He knows it’s the first time and suddenly he’s glad he waited. Timmy finds his eyes in the glass.

They stare at one another in the darkness. Armie wants to tell Timmy he doesn’t have to speak, he doesn’t have to relive this pain. That this isn’t, and shouldn’t be, tit for tat. But something inside Armie also understands the hardship of keeping something so vital to your make-up silent. A secret. He nods. He tells Timmy it’s okay, that he will listen and bear with him and keep safe the secrets Timmy now shares.

Timmy’s chin lifts, nearly imperceptibly as he begins again, carrying on with his story. His truth.

“They told me I was lucky. I was ‘well-behaved’ enough that finding a foster family for me wasn’t difficult. But that didn’t last.” He looks at the ground between his feet, his face pale as the moon. “I went through three foster homes by the time I was eleven. They were all fine enough. I went to school. I was warm and fed,” his shoulders shrug as if this were all a child of nine or ten needed in life to prosper and thrive.

“But when it came to the fourth home,” he shakes his head but doesn’t look up. “There are people in this world that should never-” the words die in his throat on a horrible choking sound. “They should never be allowed around children.”

When he looks up this time and meets Armie’s eyes in the glass, it chills Armie to the very marrow of his bones. Armie knows, without Timmy saying another word, he knows and he aches for Timmy. Anger, razor-edged, surges through Armie on Timmy’s behalf. He thinks of his own children— just as innocent as Timmy was then, as all children  _ are _ — and how someone meant to be their protector turning into who they needed protecting from.

Armie fights to keep from punching his fist through the plate glass window in front of him.

“I was there- I stayed there until I was fifteen.  _ Four years _ I stayed there and let him… he promised- that if I were good and let him do as he liked- If I didn’t- if I didn’t say anything, then he would,” Timmy blinks, silent tears tracking down his cheeks. “He said he would help me find my sister.”

On the last word, Timmy’s voice finally gives way on a choking sob that he immediately silences, the desolation of the sound makes Armie turn around. Timmy stands there in his too-big robe, shoulders folded in on themselves, his hair a messy crown of curls, falling into his eyes as tears pour, dripping from his chin, looking for all the world like the lost and broken six year-old he had once been.

Armie is seized by some unnameable urge to get closer. Perhaps it’s the dad in him, the need to comfort and protect, as he takes a hesitant step forward, unsure and uncertain. He  _ aches _ to do something— anything— to ease Timmy’s torment. Would it be wrong to hug him? To hold him? Armie searches the black corners of his psyche, checking in on the attraction he feels for Timmy that is definitely not platonic, making certain this desire to console him has nothing to do with desire to _ have him. _

Timmy’s head is bowed and he stands there, shoulders shaking.  His ability to express his anguish in complete silence doing more to crush Armie’s soul than if he were screaming and wailing in pain.

The distance between them is suddenly too much and Armie knows there is no turning back now. No matter how much Timmy says he is fine on his own, that he doesn’t need help, it also doesn’t mean that Armie still shouldn’t give it, offer it all up to him in this moment of obvious need.

Without a second thought, trusting himself, perhaps for the first time where Timmy is concerned, knowing he is being truly altruistic in his actions, Armie quietly steps closer to Timmy and without hesitation, reaches to wrap his arms around Timmy’s slender shoulders, folding him into his chest in a tender embrace.

He knows it was the right thing to do as Timmy goes without a fight. There is simply none left in him and it seems as if the contact breaks something loose inside Timmy as he melts against Armie’s chest with a sob, inconsolable. His hands grasp tightly in the front of Armie’s t-shirt as he shakes and comes apart, his tears soaking through the fabric, warm against the skin of Armie’s chest.

Time stops as they stand there. There is nothing and no one else in the world but the two of them; Armie’s hands smoothing over Timmy’s back, across his shoulders. His hair brushes the back of Armie’s fingers in a silken wave that sends sparks of warmth dancing up Armie’s arm. Timmy shifts, his arms moving, up and around Armie’s neck and Armie feels his body weight sag, grow heavier as his sobs eventually wind down.

Looking over Timmy’s head, Armie can see out his front windows, the inky blackness of night fading into the purple shade of the oncoming sunrise. Suddenly, Armie feels as tired as he’s ever felt in his life, can feel the siren call of sleep in the grit of his eyes. He knows Timmy feels it too, by the weight of him, clinging to him.

Without a thought for how ridiculous the action is, Armie scoops Timmy into his arms with well-practiced ease. He lets out a tiny squeak of protest but resists further complaint when Armie tightens his grip reassuringly.

Timmy’s head lands on Armie’s shoulder, light as a feather. He weighs next to nothing, reminds Armie so much of a wounded bird, fragile and delicate in his arms. The knowledge brings the sudden sting of tears to his eyes, and like so many nights before, as he’s done with Ford or Harper, Armie carries Timmy up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom.

Aware of the inappropriateness, Armie crosses the threshold of his bedroom with a determined stride. In this moment, Armie could give two shits for propriety or what this might look like to anyone looking in.

Archie is in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. He lifts his head as they enter the room, sniffing the air with half-interest before he lies back down and goes on ignoring them both as Armie sits Timmy downon the edge of the mattress.

“Can you sit there for just a second?” Armie’s voice is quiet, gentle.

Timmy nods, twisting the tie of the robe in his fingers. Without thought or second-guessing, Armie sweeps his hand across the crown of Timmy’s head before leaving him there.

In the ensuite, Armie easily navigates the darkness as he fills a glass from the tap, dampens a washcloth and grabs a box of tissues from the linen closet.

Coming back, he finds Timmy sitting just as he’d left him, staring at the floor. He hands him the cloth first standing over him as Timmy scrubs at his eyes, his cheeks, wiping away the dried crust of tears. His eyes are puffy, the end of his nose red as he looks up at Armie.

“Drink some of this,” Armie passes the glass of water and Timmy takes it with trembling fingers. He holds it carefully in both hands, drinking deeply before handing it back.

Armie sets it, along with the tissues, on the bedside table before leaning around Timmy to pull back the duvet. He throws the extra pillows onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed, cursing himself for allowing the decorator to convince him he needed them. He doesn’t.

“Lie down,” Armie gently commands and Timmy swings his feet up, shifting back, adjusting the robe around him as he does what he’s told. He stares at the ceiling as Armie pulls the duvet over him.

“Do you want me to leave?”

He doesn’t want to leave Timmy alone, not now, with the memories and old wounds so fresh and still bleeding, but he will if that is what he wants. Knowing now that Timmy spent most of his young life being used by people that should have had his best interests at heart, there is nothing that will keep Armie from respecting his wishes. It is paramount Timmy understand that his consent is vital to Armie in all things.

Timmy shakes his head and closes his eyes as Armie lets out the breath he had been holding. Relief.

Armie doesn’t want to be alone either. The idea of lying down in another room, or in the hallway outside his bedroom, leaves Armie cold. They both need this moment, to take comfort in each other, even if it’s only sharing a bed for sleep.

With a tight nod, Armie walks to the opposite side of the bed. With the remote on the bedside table, Armie presses a button and the blackout shades on each window lower with a low hum. They block out what little ambient light filters in from outside,  slowly blanketing the room in darkness.

Timmy lets out a tiny shuddering breath and Armie immediately realises what he’s done, remembers what Timmy just told him downstairs-

_ They would turn out the lights and it was so dark. _

“Sorry, sorry,” Armie rushes quickly to the bathroom, turning the light on. He adjusts the door so the light doesn’t shine directly onto the bed.

Armie hates the thought creeping into the back of his mind. Of how Timmy spent the dark hours of the night, hovering beneath streetlights, going off with strangers perhaps in a misguided attempt not to be left alone in the dark. The thought is heartbreaking, but leads to a better understanding, perhaps, of what motivated Timmy to do what he did in order to survive.

“Better?” Armie crosses the room again, pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed before climbing in, still wearing his track pants and t-shirt.

Once more, Timmy only nods, silent, as if he used up all his words earlier.

The sheets are cool, the room quiet. It’s the perfect inducement to sleep, but they both lie there for what could be minutes or hours, staring at the ceiling, hands stiff at their sides, neither relaxed. The space between them feels too wide, unbridgeable; it makes Armie ache in a way he can’t articulate. He listens to Timmy’s steady breathing cut in with the occasional snuffle. The tender sound makes the fingers of Armie’s right hand yearn to stretch out, reach for Timmy’s where it lies on the bed between them, only inches away.

Timmy suddenly speaks, his voice soft and bleak, breaking the silence.

“No one knows me either.”

Armie freezes not daring to breathe, offering only a muffled ‘hm?’ hoping Timmy will keep talking.

“Before,” Timmy stops, clears his throat. “Before, I said no one knows you but that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry- I didn’t mean it.”

Timmy doesn’t  try to disguise the anguish in his voice, the brash know-it-all from their previous encounters, so far removed from the tender soul now lying next to Armie.

Armie takes a deep breath, sighs heavily through his nose, hoping to ease some of the tension that’s been building inside his head all evening.

“It’s okay. It’s not like anything you said wasn’t  _ true _ . Just hard to hear.”

Armie can hear Timmy’s hair rasp against the pillow, nodding his head.

They’re both quiet for long moments again. Armie thinks he may have dozed off  when Timmy speaks again, pulling him quickly back from the abyss of sleep.

“No one knows me,” his voice is tremulous, the repetition causing Armie’s throat to tighten in sympathy.

Armie turns his head, suddenly understanding what Timmy means: there is no one left in this world that knows  _ Timmy _ from before. Before his life was shattered along with the bones in his legs, in his arm; before he lost his innocence and faith in the world.

Timmy lies with the duvet tucked beneath his arms. His eyes are tightly shut, but tears squeeze out between, diamonds on his eyelashes.  He’s rigid, the bearing of a young man that has seen too much during his short, young life.

“I want to know you,” Armie knows it’s a confession more than a statement.

The truth of the words lifts a weight Armie didn’t know he was carrying and it gives him courage to shift beneath the cotton and silk of sheet and duvet, to reach for Timmy. He goes eagerly, so willingly Armie has to take a breath to steady himself, to try and stifle the pounding pulse of his heartbeat as Timmy settles his long lean frame against Armie’s side, his head pillowed on Armie’s chest.

“I want to know you.” Armie whispers against the silken crown of Timmy’s head as he sighs and shudders, sobbing uncontrollably as he burrows deeper into the blanket— deeper into Armie.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks to [dreamofhorses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses) for volunteering to beta this for me. My knowledge of proper comma placement is atrocious. Thank you so much, doll. You are the best. xoxo

 

Armie awakens to a completely darkened bedroom and an empty bed. For a moment, he’s on the verge of believing everything that transpired with Timmy the night before was a dream until he hears the toilet flush followed by the sound of running water.

He turns to his side, facing the bathroom door, awash in relief. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, mindful of the ideaTimmy might take advantage and sneak off without a word. If Armie were honest, he wouldn’t have blamed him. He probably would have wanted to run, too, had the roles been reversed. But it doesn't mean he wouldn't have been disappointed if he had. So his relief is palpable as he lies there listening to Timmy in the next room, grateful for his remaining presence, anticipating his return.

The door opens just enough for Timmy to pass through, his slow-motion movements telegraphing his desire not to awaken Armie. Leaving the door ajar, he tiptoes back to the bed and hesitates once he standing beside it.

His face is hidden in shadow with the light of the bathroom behind him, too dim to illuminate him from this angle, but Armie knows he can see him as he smiles softly up at him. He lifts the corner of the blanket in invitation, silently hoping Timmy will join him once more.

That’s all it takes for Timmy to quickly hop in, burrowing beneath the cover. He settles on his side, facing Armie, hands tucked beneath his head. His hair is a frizzy halo, limned in the light from the bathroom, a dark, stark contrast against the white sheets. Armie imagines he can feel his knees touching the skin of his own, the heat of him so close.

Armie takes pleasure in the quiet wonder of someone next to him in bed as they lie there staring at one another in the dark.  

“How are you feeling?” Armie isn’t sure why he keeps his voice low; it’s only the two of them in the dark of the bedroom, in the entire house. They could be the only people left in the world as far as Armie cared in this moment. There’s just something about the dark that speaks of quiet voices and languid conversation.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. Umm, sorry. Sorry I woke you,” Timmy lifts his head, shaking his hair back out of his face before lying back down. There is something endearing about the movement as it does nothing to tame the curls away from his face.

“I don’t think you did, “ Armie answers truthfully. He doesn’t think it was Timmy who woke him up. Not directly, but the emptiness he felt beside him.

Timmy nods as they go quiet again, both lost in their own thoughts. Armie is still tired but not sleepy; he’s content to just lie there.

“I’m not just sorry for waking you,” Timmy eventually admits, his eyes drifting, looking at Armie’s neck instead of his eyes. Shamed. His voice is tight. “That was a lot of shit I laid on you, it’s not-”

“Hey, “ Armie gently interrupts. “Hey,” he repeats when Timmy doesn’t look up. Armie lifts his chin with an index finger.

In the dim light, Timmy’s eyes are dark, fathomless. He looks painfully young as something glints in their verdant depths, far off and distant. It reminds Armie of his nights on the island, after a storm, the first twinkling stars through the cloud break. It reminds Armie of hope and relief as his heart tries to beat out of his chest.

He knows Timmy is afraid, knowing his truth will somehow alter Armie’s perspective of him. And it does, but not in the way Timmy fears. Armie doesn’t look at Timmy now and pity him for what he suffered in his short life, but he understands how most people would. Timmy knows that as well. No. Armie fucking _admires_ him even more now. For his strength, for his tenacity. For his will to fucking _live._

He holds Timmy’s chin gently between thumb and forefinger and watches as Timmy swallows, licks his lips before he speaks, knocking the wind out of Armie's sails:

“Have you ever kissed a man?”

The question leaves Armie reeling, as if he’s been gut shot, all the air rushing from his lungs. For all that  Timmy’s voice is barely audible, he might as well have screamed the question. It’s the earnestness that does Armie in; the fact Timmy is sincerely asking makes him want to burrow into Timmy, to climb inside of him and lose himself forever.

The question makes the back of Armie’s eyes sting and he blinks while his breath is trapped in his tight throat.

“Timmy, I ca-”

“I like when you say my name,” Timmy whispers. He pulls one hand from beneath his head, placing it tentatively on Armie’s forearm.

It’s ridiculous how the innocent touch makes Armie quake with fear.  His eyes squeeze shut, his heart thunders in his chest. His ribs are too tight for a breath.

Timmy shifts in the bed, edging closer to Armie. He can feel the heat of him all along his front, chest to knee. Armie is frozen, unable to move back— not wanting to, but knowing if he were a good man, he should.

“What are you afraid of?”

Timmy’s breath is a warm breeze washing across Armie’s face. He can’t resist opening his eyes, finding Timmy staring at him intently, as if he can see straight through him with those sea-green eyes.

“I thought maybe, after all this, we were past playing games.” It’s a plea as much as it is a statement from Armie.

“I’m not playing,”  Timmy’s tone of voice goes straight to the pit of Armie’s stomach, a warm writhing _thing_ that Armie hadn’t felt in so long.

“And, that wasn’t my question— what are you _afraid_ of?”

Armie tries to ignore the weight of Timmy’s hand on the skin of his forearm, but the tips of his fingers burn the prints into the flesh beneath.

“Why does it have to be about sex? Why can’t we just-”

“Why _can’t_ it be about sex, too?”

Armie’s laugh is bitter and harsh in the quiet room.

“How can you even ask that question? How could I ever-”

Armie doesn’t finish his sentence before Timmy rolls onto his back with an over-dramatic groan.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you all that shit. Now it’s just going to be a fucking pity party out of you. What a waste.” He flings his arm across his eyes.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Armie shakes his head. “If you'll  recall, I hadn’t touched you before you told me anything. That has nothing to do with it. But-” Armie reaches over and pulls Timmy’s arm down. He looks up at Armie, his eyes round, shining. “I’m glad you told me. Honored. It doesn’t change how I feel or think about you. At all. You got th-”

Timmy surges up, pressing his lips to Armie’s before Armie even realises he’s moved.

It’s too hard, too rushed. Timmy’s lips too determined in his pursuit to bind himself to Armie. The rush of assault leaves Armie with no chance to appreciate how soft Timmy’s lips must be, how soft he’s imagined them to be.

The shock of it rattles Armie and he remembers what Timmy had said earlier (was it just last night? It feels like one hundred years ago) — _“kissing’s not usually my thing”._

Timmy’s breath pushes through his nose in frustration, tilting his head, pressing forward once more. Armie’s teeth mash painfully against the back side of his upper lip and he jerks back in retreat, placing his hand in the middle of Timmy’s chest to prevent his next attack.

It doesn’t stop him pushing frantically against Armie’s hold, trying  to maneuver a way to close the space between them again. Armie shakes his head.

Timmy collapses back against the bed in frustration once more. Armie rubs a hand across his face, the stubble of his jaw rasping against his palm.

Timmy groans as he grasps at his hair, fists tight,  pulling with both hands. “You want this… You want _me_ , but you won’t do anything about it.” His arms drop like stones at his sides, he looks up at Armie with eyes that can’t see.

Can’t see that Armie is hanging on by a thread; can’t see that Armie feels the pull of his rose-water lips like a man lost in the desert, dying of thirst.

“I want you to kiss me. Do you- no one has. I don’t let them. I don’t _want_ them but I want you— Armie, just _once_ -”

The sound of his name is more than Armie can take. It’s the worst decision he’s ever made, the timing absolutely wrong. But he knows there is nothing in this world to stop it from happening. Not as Timmy stares up at him, his eyes pleading with Armie to understand that he _knows_ what he is asking, imploring. How can Armie ever deny him anything?

Taking a deep, grounding breath gives Armie time to check in on his own state of mind. Timmy is fragile and raw from his earlier confessions but Armie knows this moment is important to Timmy. He’s split himself wide-open, bared parts of himself he never dared before. He’s more naked and exposed than he’s ever been in the course of fucking for money, asking Armie to see him, to know him.

 _This_ is something Armie can do for him. Above and beyond supplying for his basic human needs as he’d offered so stupidly earlier— something Timmy has managed on his own for a long time now. He doesn't _need_ Armie for that. Certainly, Armie could have made his life _easier_ but it wasn’t something Timmy couldn’t have ever eventually managed on his own.

Trust and intimacy— that is what is lacking in Timmy’s life and will never, can never, be fulfilled by random Johns in the middle of the night. Timmy wants— needs— someone to _see him_ to _know him_ and understand.

Yes. Armie can do that for him. Here. Now.

Slowly, as if anything too sudden will pop the fragile soap-bubble moment, Armie lifts his hand, imagines he can see his control dissolve into the ether, the wisps of his restraint flowing from the tip of his shaking finger. It comes to rest on the bridge of Timmy’s nose, and it’s electric. Timmy’s eyes flutter and Armie can feel the shiver that courses through his body at such a simple touch.

It softens the edges of Armie’s desire, wraps them in cotton-wool to allow his focus to remain steady: all about Timmy. Armie wants this like air, but none of it can be about him, his needs or desires. It’s all about Timmy— for Timmy. Through the touch of one finger and one press of lips, Armie hopes to convey to Timmy that from him, he will never be touched with anything but singular devotion. If Timmy will allow him, he will spend his life making certain he is only ever touched with unerring affection. No one will hurt Timmy again, if Armie has any say in it.

His finger moves, traces down the slope of Timmy’s nose, gently sliding down his philtrum, across the swell of upper lip. Armie’s breath stutters in his chest when he catches a  flash of the edge of white teeth as his finger catches on the pillow-perfection of Timmy’s bottom lip. The tip of a pink tongue appears through his panting, open mouth, leaving it glistening. An invitation.

Armie’s chest feels too tight to allow his heart to beat, so it thumps painfully in the base of his throat. It’s as good as done, Armie already knows, as if they’ve done this a hundred times, a thousand. Not the kiss forced on him by Timmy just moments ago, but something much more visceral, soul-binding. He’s kissed him already, every permutation of a kiss in the dark hours of the night, along the Santa Monica Boulevard, passing cigarettes back and forth, bumping shoulders with a laugh, with sand between their toes. Every interaction they’ve ever had was a kiss of life between them. This is merely the moment in which to make it manifest.

Timmy takes a deep breath, his nostrils flair, his eyes widen incrementally, waiting for it to happen. It’s fascinating to watch the range of emotions play across his face— anticipation, hunger, fear— as Armie leans in, glacier-slow and molten-lava intense.

The first tentative sweep of his lips across Timmy’s is like an earthquake. It shakes the very foundations of Armie’s psyche. He thought he knew what it would be like, but he had _no_ idea. He's played ‘gay’ on film, kissed men on screen. They were tight-lipped, forced moments of false intimacy, and absolutely nothing like this.

Timmy’s breath hitches.

Armie presses his finger to the corner of Timmy’s mouth, tilts his head as his lips touch Timmy’s once more. Finger. Lips. Armie wishes he could fold himself up small enough so that the entirety of his body could share the contact, be involved in this kiss that he knows will, no doubt, change him (already has) on a fundamental level.

Timmy’s tongue darts out again, brave, a kitten lick to the pad of Armie’s finger, grazing his lip. The warmth of it travels like a shot through Armie’s body and he feels it in the tips of his toes, the pit of his stomach, the base of his spine. The root of his cock.

There is a moan, deep and rumbling, from the cavern of Armie’s chest that sets him free. As his mouth seals against Timmy’s own, his finger trails  from Timmy’s mouth, grasping Timmy’s chin between finger and thumb, tilting his head to suit his next advance because there is no holding back now. Timmy melts beneath him; Armie can feel the moment he goes from tense to putty  in Armie’s hands. A sigh so soft, fragile, exhales into Armie’s waiting mouth.

He tastes like heaven; sugar-salt and bittersweet.

Armie teases, nips, licks at Timmy’s plush mouth. His tongue only barely advances past Timmy’s teeth, met by the tentative stroke of Timmy’s own sliding gently against it. The fingers holding his chin release, smooth down the length of his pale throat, curl around his nape and into his hair. His grip is wide, his thumb easily resting against the base of Timmy’s throat, feeling his pulse flutter like a bird trapped in a net.

Armie knows he could do this forever. _Wants_ to do this forever. More. All. He knows Timmy wouldn’t stop him, that he probably wants it just as much, that what is happening between them has nothing to do with the exchange of money or quid pro quo. It has everything to do with desire and need and want, but— it can't happen now. Armie knows it, knows that it is up to him to protect Timmy in this moment because Timmy won’t stop to think to protect himself.

Slowly, with resignation, Armie pulls back. Their lips part slowly, a thin, translucent string of saliva clinging, desperate to keep them joined. Armie’s lips tingle from the barely there scrape of whiskers on Timmy's upper lip. Timmy's lip glows red-hot, the area around his mouth gone pink in return from Armie’s thicker, rougher stubble. Timmy lifts his torso from the bed, his lips leading the charge, hoping to follow Armie to keep the kiss going; to make it last.

Armie chuckles softly, indulgently, pressing his hand against Timmy’s sternum gingerly, to stop his forward momentum. He resists the urge to slide his hand down between the open flaps of the robe, to explore the warm-marble feel of his hairless torso beneath his palms. To examine the flat planes and hard edges in comparison to the soft curves he's only ever known. Armie wants the creamy white perfection of Timmy’s skin marred with the red blush that would be left behind as he traced his cheek against him.

“Ah uh,” Armie shakes his head as Timmy’s glassy eyes open and beg for more.   

“We’ve been good.” Armie presses a kiss to the tip of Timmy’s nose. “I want to be good.” His words are tender, soft and more than heartfelt.

He wants to _do_ good by Timmy. He deserves nothing less.

Timmy lies back with a sigh, his fingers brushing against his lips as his eyes slowly close. Armie watches him a moment, before lying back and staring at the ceiling, trying to order his thoughts.

He’s just kissed a man and while he feels like he could fly, he doesn’t feel _different_ and he wonders if he should be surprised by that at all. Shouldn’t something so out of the norm of his usual experience make him feel somehow... _changed_?

His mother’s voice tries to chime in, but he refuses her the real estate. Knows nothing she has ever said in his life should have ever made a damn bit of difference in how he acted or thought. He’s determined now that it never will again.

The sound of Archie’s tag rattling against his collar as he scratches breaks the silence, allowing reality to seep into the moment. Timmy sighs.

“Better now?” Armie gently teases, surprised by how affected his voice still sounds.  Timmy’s scoffs.

Armie looks over at him and revels in the smile on his face. His eyes are closed and it takes Armie’s breath away, just how beautiful he is.

“Not bad,” Timmy chides before rising in a rush, planting himself over Armie with one leg thrown across Armie's thighs, pressing his lips against his again.

Armie can’t help but laugh, indulging him for the briefest moment before pulling back, settling Timmy within his arms, head once against at rest against Armie’s chest.

Timmy sighs and they lie there, quiet for a long stretch of time, each lost in their own thoughts. Timmy’s index finger absentmindedly draws circles in the fabric of Armie’s t-shirt. It’s an odd, but not unpleasant sensation, as it pulls at the hair on his chest beneath. It feels better than it has a right to; Armie would be mortified if he couldn’t, in that moment, feel the hardness of Timmy’s cock pressed against his thigh.

Timmy yawns after a while. “I still don’t understand why you won’t just sleep with me.”

Armie’s eyes are closed, his voice sleep-heavy as one corner of his mouth lifts in a sardonic smile.

“I’m trying to,” he ruffles Timmy’s hair.

“You are ridiculous, you know that right? I don’t know a man alive that would turn down the chance for sex. I’m a sure thing, you know.”

Armie does know and that’s why he can’t. “I’m not _most_ men.”

There is a long silence until Timmy props his chin on Armie’s chest. His eyes are earnest as they search Armie’s face and he hopes Timmy see what he’s hoping to find.

“You’re not, are you?” He asks quietly.

Armie shakes his head and when he speaks he can barely manage to be heard. “I like you, Timmy. I don’t want to ruin this and I’m afraid that would.”

“Having sex, you mean?”

Armie nods.

Timmy huffs in exasperation, laying his head back down on Armie’s chest.

“You like me but you won’t sleep with me. That makes _no_ sense.”

Armie understands how it doesn’t make sense to Timmy. He’s never had the chance to get to know someone for longer than it takes them to get off. Armie wants more than that.

“Come to the premiere with me this week.”

Armie gasps at his own audacity in the invitation, shocked that the words have come from him and immediately clamors his mouth shut with a clack of teeth. He hadn’t even thought before he was saying it. He may be freaking out. A bit.

Timmy laughs and sits up in the bed. He crosses his legs in front of him, pulling the robe around to protect his modesty as he stares down at Armie.

“Go to the premiere with you?” he sounds so incredulous it almost hurts Armie’s feelings.

Armie shrugs                   .

Timmy rolls his eyes. “Sure, I'll just come along with you to a Hollywood premiere. Yeah, I'll tag along with you. No one's gonna notice some streetwalker hanging on your arm. That'll go over real well. “

Armie pushes himself up, sitting against the headboard.

“Fuck them. They can think what they want, I don't care. I want you there.”

Timmy's eyes narrow, his head tilts as he loom at Armie. “Like a date?”

“Exactly like a date,” Armie isn't surprised by how easy it is to admit that, though he thinks he probably should be. Yes. A date. He wants a date with Timmy. He wants _to_ date Timmy. Fact.

Timmy bursts out laughing, falling over in the bed. Armie crosses his arms, frustrated.

“What?”

“Nothing. It's just,” Timmy tries to catch his breath between fits of laughter. “Are you planning on using this disaster of a premiere as some sort of subterfuge?”

“What do you mean? No-”

“Well, it only makes sense if you are asking me to go if you're hoping to divert the focus off the bad press surrounding it all by letting everyone know that you're..." 

“That I’m what?” Armie’s eyes squint, daring Timmy to say what it is Armie thinks he’s saying.

Timmy stares at him, serious, his eyes flinty. Challenge accepted.

“That you’re gay.”

Armie looks away, can feel the heat rising from his chest, up his throat, flaming to life in his face.

“No.” Armie fiercely interjects between clenched teeth, his jaw tight. “That’s not what this is about at all. I would never do that- use you...  _this_ whatever it is, like that. Fuck, of course I wouldn’t,” he swallows, turns back to Timmy, stone-faced. “I just want you to be there.”

Timmy blinks at Armie’s honest tone, his mouth works as if he wants to say something but thinks better of it. His shoulders curl in on themselves as his neck retreats into the collar of the robe. He nods.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

Timmy shrugs. "That's a 'maybe you should think about it a little more and ask me again later'."

"Nothing to think about," Armie chirps, punching his pillow, stuffing it back behind his head.

There is only an answering hum from Timmy and Armie smiles.

It wasn't a 'no'. Relief washes over Armie at Timmy’s as-good-as acceptance. He looks at the clock on his bedside table; it’s nearly 8am. He’s suddenly weary. There’s an appointment he can’t reschedule at 10:30 and feels an hour of sleep has to be better than none at this point.

Armie slips back down in the bed and Timmy automatically follows. As if they’ve been doing this all their lives, Timmy rolls away to allow Armie to press up against his back, wrap his arm around Timmy’s waist and sleep.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of domestic bliss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peace and love to [dreamofhorses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses) for the quick beta. <3
> 
> Special thanks to [Macaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macaron/pseuds/Macaron) for their help with my pitiful attempt at Italian. xoxo

 

Something warm and wet slithers against Armie’s palm as he slowly wakes. It nudges, persistent, makes him pull away in frustration because he doesn’t want to wake up. God, he’s missed the _comfort_ in this too much. It’s been ages since he’s been oh-so comfortable to the act of waking with someone in his arms. Cozy, his mind helpfully supplied.

He ignores the odd feeling in his hand as he snuffles into the nape pressed against his nose, silky hair tickling the tip of his nose, against the closed lid of his eyes. He luxuriates in the warm presence of the body pressed, solid, against his own. He wills himself to hold onto this dream as long as possible because the thought of waking up, alone, again, istoo painful a reality to face.

The persistent _something_ against his hand has other plans, infuriating in its persistence.  As sleep eludes him, his body slowly comes fully online . He shifts imperceptibly and freezes once his sleep-addled brain finally registers that he isn’t, in fact,  alone in the bed. It’s a shocking revelation for a myriad of reasons, the most profound of which is that it’s immediately apparent the body lying next to him is devoid of softness and curves. It’s firm and sleek— inherently _male—_  and nothing he’s ever experienced before. His imagination has never been this good to him which makes him want to fight doubly hard to stay within this dream as long as he possibly can.

Armie isn’t sure he knows exactly _when_ the idea of waking up next to a man became so appealing, or something he actually _wanted_ . He knows he’s always had this vague _urge_ to experiment (is that the right term?) but never had the nerve to actually pursue it in any active sense. To be honest, he’s not certain it’s the male _form_ that appeals to him in the base sense of the meaning. His desire lies in finding someone to match him in all aspects— mentally and physically. He loves women, always has, but there is a line he won’t cross with them.

He’s uncertain if it is out of respect;he’s not a small man, by any definition of the word, and fears truly hurting a woman, physically. Armie appreciates pain, but in due course and under certain circumstances. He can never really go where his libido wants so desperately to go, to lead him out of that fear. He knows it is disturbingly wrapped up with the constant voice of his mother in his head, reminding him how a _gentleman_ is supposed to behave and what a disappointment Armie’s prurient tastes would be to her if she, god forbid, ever found out.

And Liz. Well, he’s spent years in therapy dealing with his mommy issues that marrying her only reinforced.   

When there is another insistent nudge to the palm of his hand,  Armie gives in, finally relents, cracking one eye open and freezes— It’s not a dream.

_Timmy._

The reality hits him squarely in the chest with a sudden constriction, too tight to take a deep breath. He gingerly lifts his head, careful not to wake the sleeping form lying next to him as he looks past dark hair and broad shoulders of the man he’s wrapped around to see Archie sitting  on the floor beside the bed. He’s licking Armie’s palm. Ready to go out.

Armie’s head falls silently to the pillow as memory crashes in around him. Every moment of the night plays like the scene from a play against the back of his eyelids. Timmy’s submission in the sitting room and the subsequent war Armie fought within himself to deny the hunger the image of him naked and willing had awakened. Armie had always known he was a kinky bastard, but he’d never managed to pinpoint the _exact_ root of where that kink might lie or lead. Somehow Timmy had seen it in him, had somehow _known_ the exact nature of his wants and desires and Armie isn’t ready to unpack the _how_ of that just yet.

It is too terrifying to contemplate. If Timmy is able to see this side of him after just a few days, Armie’s not so certain he wants to know what the people in his daily life— the ones who claim to know him so well—  think of him.

Then there is the kiss. _“Have you ever kissed a man?”_ Armie knew it was both an innocent inquiry and a subtle challenge. A dare to see if Armie were willing to come out into the light, testing whether his intentions were truly altruistic where Timmy was concerned.

Looking back on it now, it seems to have been inevitable. Armie was never going to win this fight. He’s spent the last week pursuing this man-child, there’s no denying the fact. But, it’s all so muddy now, shrouded in the painful knowledge of Timmy’s past. How does Armie not become one more asshole in the long line of assholes that have taken advantage of Timmy? The kiss was transcendent and Armie knows it has shifted something within him on an elemental level. It wasn’t just a _kiss_ but something groundbreaking.

Armie _knows_ the  fact this kiss was so earth-shattering isn’t just because he kissed a man. While, yes, the idea that he has always been attracted to men in some way, it wasn’t down to that fact alone. It had everything to do with it being _Timmy_.

_Singular._

Now Armie’s gone and toppled his own house of cards by asking Timmy to attend the premiere with him?

_Oh, god._

The memory— blurting out the suggestion to Timmy without any forethought—  has Armie stifling a groan. What had he been thinking? _How_ was this possibly a good idea? It makes no sense why the thought ever left his mouth. _Yes,_ he would like the opportunity to attend with someone he actually likes, cares for. His career is already on the line with the impending failure of the film, bringing a _man_ as his date will only certainly  guarantee it.

There’s no denying Armie felt such relief when Timmy begrudgingly accepted the invitation but now looking at the situation outside the fog of their kiss, Armie doesn’t know how he can go through with it. He would love nothing more than the freedom to show up with Timmy on his arm, but he knows that isn’t how this works.

It’s a goddamn tragedy he has no way of hoping will have a happy ending.

More pressing in the moment, as he lies there thinking, is Timmy’s pointed accusation that Armie was asking merely as some sort of weird, back-handed cover for the movie’s predicted flop. He wants to think he is better than that, but isn’t certain he can convince himself of it to be true.

He also hadn’t denied he wasn’t gay. Had actually said ‘fuck them’ to anyone who might question Timmy’s presence at his side.

_What does it mean?_

Armie rolls to his back, throwing an arm over his eyes, exasperated. He really hasn’t had enough sleep to sort out these kinds of thoughts.

Gently, he moves, extricating himself from around Timmy, who only grumbles, turning to fully lie on his stomach. Armie’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile as he slips from the bed. Timmy doesn’t offer another sound or movement, just continues the slow, even breaths of deep sleep.

Armie takes a moment to look at him, the side of his face pressed into the pillow, arms flung above his head so deeply asleep. He almost feels guilty by how young he appears and his fresh beauty tugs tight at the center of Armie’s chest.  Armie wonders how long it’s been since Timmy slept so soundly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. That he does so now adds a weight of trust to Armie’s burden.

Once he manages to look away, Armie reluctantly heads to the bathroom, taking care of his usual morning routine, albeit with lighter steps and a need to be as quiet as possible. Once he’s finished, he takes one last look at Timmy, storing the image away somewhere private and guarded,  grabs a pair of trainers from the closet, ushers Archie out of the room and closes the door quietly behind him as he heads downstairs.

It’s a quarter until ten. Armie knows there’s no way he’s making his 10:30 and luckily (or not-so-luckily, as the case may be)  it happens to be a meeting with Liz. He finds his phone on the kitchen counter where he’d left it the night before, immediately pulling up her contact number. Usually, he takes petty enjoyment out of inconveniencing her and listening to her complain ceaselessly about how much he has upset her rigid planned-to- -within-an-inch-of-its-life schedule. This morning, however, he doesn’t have the patience to listen to her, so he takes the cowardly route in the form of a text.

**< 9:47AM> Sorry, short notice. Just woke up.**

**Not feeling great today. Can we**

**reschedule for later this week?**

Armie hits send, knowing full well she was going to be furious. That was just a given, but he wasn’t making the meeting, so his text was merely a formality at this point.

He stares at the phone in his hand, debating. Thinking of Timmy still lying in his bed, he hesitates a moment before pulling up Nick’s number. There’s a tremble in his fingers, the ghost of nerves making their presence known as he stares at the screen. This text is not going to be expected, it is not going to fly under the radar and Armie’s stomach feels as it has settled somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.

Nick is a part-time assistant / go-between. When Armie wants or needs something he doesn’t want questioned, Nick is the one he turns to make it happen. This time though, he knows this is something that isn’t going to be ‘handled’ without a follow-up from his long-time friend. Armie isn’t sure he is up for a conversation, but he feels if he doesn’t follow through he doesn’t like what that might say about his character.

**< 9:53AM> Can you make certain to add a +1**

**to my name for the premiere. For**

**whoever needs to know that stuff.**

**Thanks, dude.**

Armie hits sends and leans a hip against the counter. His heart races as he tosses his phone between sweaty palms, wondering how a text so short and simple holds the power to change his world for good.

Armie doesn’t wait for a response from either Liz or Nick— he knows it’s only a matter of time— he sets the phone down on the counter and grabs Archie’s leash. He rubs behind his ears for good measure as he clips it to his collar, heading toward the door leading out back.

“Come on, boy,” he calls as they make their way down to the beach.

 

*********

 

By the time they make it back through the back gate, Armie is covered with sand, sticking to a combination of the sweat from their run on the beach and the ocean where he and Archie had played fetch in the surf. Archie immediately finds his patch of shade beneath a planted palm, poolside, as Armie strips down to his underwear, rinsing off in the outdoor shower at the far end of the pool. He wraps a towel around his hips, grabs up his clothes and heads, still dripping, back into the house.

He leaves a trail of water through the kitchen on his way to the laundry room. As he dumps his sandy clothes in the hamper, he’s surprised to hear Timmy’s voice coming from the sitting room, apparently on the phone. He had hoped Timmy would still be asleep when he returned, the image of him lying in his bed having kept him company while at the beach. But, aside from those less-than-friendly thoughts, he had truly wished for Timmy to rest, leaving him sleeping so soundly, it seemed he might have needed it.

Armie walks back into the  kitchen but stops at the counter, listening to Timmy as he speaks. It’s not that he trying to eavesdrop, just that he can’t help but be surprised as he hears Timmy speak in broken Italian.

“No, I know. _Avrei dovuto chiamare. Sì_ . _Sì._ ”

It’s so unexpected, Armie finds himself drawn towards the sitting room. Timmy is still wearing the robe Armie loaned him, naked legs visible from mid-calf down. Armie is momentarily drawn away from listening to the conversation, fascinated by Timmy’s bare feet, his toes tapping against the floor. He’s standing in front of the window, looking towards the beach. Armie realises he probably watched as he and Archie played in the sand below and wonders how long he’s been standing there.

Timmy half turns when he hears Armie stop in the doorway, a smile on his face as he shrugs and hums to the person on the other end of the phone.

“I’m sorry. Yes- I know,” he sighs and rolls his eyes for Armie’s benefit as Armie looks on. “ _No, sto bene. Te lo giuro._ Yes. I will. _Ti farò sapere_ . You, too. _Ci vidiamo, Luca._ ”

“You speak Italian?” Armie can’t help but ask as soon as Timmy presses end on the call.

“It’s not as good as my French,” he confesses with a well-practiced Gallic shrug, slipping his phone in the pocket of the robe

For half a second, Armie is ready to laugh at the joke, but looking at the plaintive expression on Timmy’s face, he knows it’s true.

“French _and_ Italian?”

Timmy plays with the too-long sleeves of the robe, twisting the hem in each fist. “Not bad for a homeless rentboy, huh?” Timmy only tilts his head slightly, looking up at Armie across the room through his lashes.

_Back to the start._

It hurts Armie more than it should to think Timmy would now fall back on the take-me-as-I-am attitude, not after last night and all Timmy shared with him about his pain and his past. Did the kiss ( which left Armie reeling still, truth be known) not mean anything to him after all? Did Timmy truly find it so easy to lock it all away, leading them back to square one?

Armie refuses to let that happen.

“Ha, not bad for _anyone_. Fuck, I took four years of French in school and can barely manage to order french fries.”

Timmy, shakes his head, looking as if he fights the smile that spreads across his face at Armie taking the piss out of himself.

The room is crowded with the air of uncertainty, both lacking the knowledge on how to proceed. They stand there as the room seems to shrink in on itself, staring at one another, uncertain, until Timmy’s eyes drift from Armie’s gaze, sliding down to linger on his bare chest.

Armie’s never been shy a day in his life, but suddenly feels over-exposed in the moment, having forgotten he was barely dressed until Timmy’s emerald gaze scorched his skin.

 _“Voulez vous coucher avec moi?”_ Timmy croons and Armie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I _do_ know that one,” Armie turns back toward the kitchen, sending Timmy a quick lift of his chin. “Come on, Lady Marmalade. I don’t know about you, but I could use some coffee.”

There’s a soft, deep chuckle from behind him as he walks out of the room.

Armie knows he could give any coffee house a run for its money. His counter gleams with every type of coffee contraption known to man. There’s a French press, an espresso machine, a Keurig for god’s sake, but he settles for his tried and true, no frills, coffee maker. It feels like a three cup morning, so he’s going to make it strong enough to walk on its own.

Timmy hovers in the doorway, looking around before Armie motions with a lift of his chin for him to have a seat at the large kitchen island in the center of the room. They’re both silent, in their own heads, as Armie brews coffee, pouring both a cup when it’s finished, sliding one over to Timmy. Not certain how Timmy takes his, Armie sets both sugar and cream within reach of Timmy and watches, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth, as Timmy pours cream into the inky brew until it’s the color of caramel before then stirring enough sugar to make his teeth hurt.

“Like a little coffee with your cream and sugar?” Armie can’t help but tease, easing a scalding sip of his own strong black coffee.

Timmy holds the cup in both hands, elbows resting on the counter. The sleeves of the robe slide down his forearms, revealing his pale thin arms. He blows steam across the lip of his cup and shrugs.

Armie’s phone vibrates on the counter, the buzz too loud.

Armie knows Timmy is waiting to see if he answers it, so he makes certain not to even look at it, taking a sip of coffee instead.

Timmy does the same and offers explanation.

“Habit, I guess. Breakfast isn’t usually a meal I can afford, so I load my coffee with as many calories as I can to make it worth the price.”

Armie feels all the air leave him, deflated. The shit he takes for granted makes him sick to his stomach. He sets his cup down with great care, mouth twisting in apology before he heads to the refrigerator, suddenly on a mission.

“Eggs okay with you?” Armie is already removing items— eggs, cheese, butter— not waiting for Timmy to respond.

It’s like a switch was thrown with Timmy’s admission and Armie has instantly vowed to himself, if Timmy sticks around, however long and lucky Armie is to have him there, he’s going to make certain he’s taken care of.

Timmy shuffles in his seat. “Look, don’t go to any trouble. I mean, I should probably head out, right? I mean-” Armie’s phone buzzes again with another incoming text and Timmy motions to it with a flick of his fingers. “You’ve obviously got stuff you need to do, so…”

Armie sets a pan on the cooktop with a little more force than necessary.

“Nope, I’ve already cancelled the meeting I had this morning, so I’m all yours,” he says with a flourish of wide-opened arms. “And, I don’t know about you but I am _starving_.”

He turns back to the ingredients he’s gathered together on the counter with false alacrity. “Anything you don’t like? Speak now or suffer later,” he tosses a smile over his shoulder and waits for Timmy to settle into the idea that Armie truly wants him to stick around, to hang out as pals.

A tiny crease forms at the bridge of Timmy’s nose as he studies the moment too hard. Armie can see the thoughts play out on Timmy’s face, questioning his kindness (ouch), wondering when the catch will come (never) until there settles a small look of wonder on his face that feeds a tiny spark inside Armie’s chest.

He straightens his shoulders and leans back into his stool, cup in hands, taking a timid sip before answering with a delicate lift of corner of his mouth. “Anything but tomatoes and I’m all good.”

“Riiiiiight,” Armie smirks, “No tomatoes, but plenty of ketchup. That makes loads of sense, dude.” Armie chuckles and get to work cracking eggs.

“I explained my reasoning. They’re gross. I don’t know if I trust anyone that likes tomatoes.”

Armie mocks a scorned expression that spawns a bright-as-the-sun smile from Timmy in response. Armie feels the warmth of it all the way to his toes, tipping his ears in pleasant heat.

“Well, I hope you can learn not to hold my love of tomatoes against me,” he proclaims with a wave of his knife in the air.

“Jury’s still out on that one,” Timmy’s retort comes too quickly to be taken at face value as just a joke.  

Armie hums in understanding as he chops and mixes and enjoys the company of someone on the other side of the counter for a change.

“So, Italian and French?” He finally asks, one brow lifting high on his forehead. He desperately wants to know more about anything Timmy is willing to share and hopes this line of questioning isn’t too invasive.

“Mm,” Timmy nods, taking another sip of his coffee. “Yeah, well, my father was French. We were taught both from birth, actually. It was hard- you know, when in foster care, to retain it. But even though I was young, I knew,” he looks down at the counter, where his hands slowly rotate the cup. “I knew it was the only way to- it helped me remember him. Both my parents, really. And Pauline. I don’t know, whenever I thought of them, I remembered them in French? It’s dumb, I know and sounds so weird to hear myself say it out loud,” he laughs at himself, soft and pained.

Armie shakes his head, buttering toast and sliding it onto a plate. “I don’t think it’s weird. Not at all.”

Timmy looks up at him, his eyes large and round, so open in his face. “I… appreciate that.”

Armie offers a sympathetic smile before setting a plate in front of him.

Timmy stares at the food and Armie feels suddenly inadequate. It’s only a cheese omelet and toast. He never really keeps anything in to cook during the week, instead opting to shop for each meal when he decides to actually make something at home. His schedule is always so erratic, it’s a waste to keep anything in.

Timmy looks up again, his eyes so green it makes Armie’s breath catch in his chest and this time there is an emotion on his face that makes Armie need to look away. He busies himself finding Timmy a fork, a knife, something nervous and fluttering in his stomach..

The drawer bangs too loudly and Armie winces, handing the silverware over to Timmy’s outstretched hand. Their fingers touch.

“Thank you,” as he offers a small but heartfelt smile Armie knows is borne of the lack of experience Timmy has had with anyone treating him with kindness.

His throat feels hollow so he only nods and takes the seat across from Timmy with his own plate of food.

For a few moments, a nervous quiet hovers between them as they eat. It’s broken by the occasional clang of  fork on porcelain, the scrape of a knife across toast, spreading the jam Armie set out. It isn’t uncomfortable, but Armie wants the silence filled with the sound of Timmy’s voice.

“So, um,” Armie finishes his coffee. “Would you like some more?”  holding the carafe over Timmy’s cup, waiting.

He shakes his head, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he chews a piece of toast. “Could I- could I maybe have a glass of milk?”

Timmy doesn’t make eye contact, the crests of his prominent cheekbones tinted pink as Armie shelters the surprise at such an innocent request.

“Milk? Yeah, um, I’m sure I have some. Hopefully it isn’t out of date.” Armie knows his smile is too bright but he’s determined not to make Timmy feel in anyway self-conscious.

“No, that’s okay. Really-”

“Here we go,” he grabs the carton from the fridge, checking the date. Seeing that it isn’t expired, he still gives it an experimental whiff just to make sure before he pours a glass.

Timmy nods in thanks as he takes a large sip, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of the robe before he realises what he’s done.

“Oh, shit, man. I am so sorry. I didn’t-”

Armie laughs, waving his hand to dismiss Timmy’s apology.

“Don’t worry about it.”

The smile that spreads across Armie’s face is genuine. It’s huge, stretching to his ears in a way he can’t remember smiling in a long time. Well, apart from when he’s with his kids. He’s uncertain if he smiles at all— not a _real_ smile that warms the pit of his belly— in his day-to-day life.

_And if that isn’t a fucking shame._

Armie sits back down, setting the carton of milk at Timmy’s elbow, hoping he’ll help himself to more, if he wants.

He’s nearly finished, looking over to see, happily, Timmy is as well, before Armie speaks up again.

“So, you’ve explained the French. What about the Italian?”

Timmy nods, swallows. “The Italian is still a work in progress.”

Armie hums. “Are you teaching yourself? Like one of those online language deals?”

Laughing, Timmy shakes his head before taking another sip of milk. This time simply using his tongue to clear away the remnant left behind on his upper lip.

Armie’s plate is suddenly very interesting and his seat entirely too uncomfortable as he shifts and squirms.

“I’m hardly in a position to sit around online learning a foreign language I don’t really need,” he laughs but the tone of it matches his darkened eyes.

“No, there’s a place I crash sometimes,” Timmy starts to explain as Armie tenses, already sort of dreading hearing, wishing he hadn’t asked. He thought he wanted to get to know everything about Timmy, but there were also parts of  him, and his life, Armie definitely wanted to leave his head in the sand about.

Timmy scoops up the last bite of egg, placing it on the corner of his toast, chews it thoughtfully before he continues.

“There’s a tiny movie theater in B—. One of those old movie houses with two screens that shows retrospectives of Kurosawa or Godard, shit like that. The owner is from Italy. Luca, a real cinephile,” he smiles fondly before finishing his milk. He looks at the carton speculatively before Armie nods and waves his hand for him to take all he wants, hoping by keeping silent, he will keep Timmy talking. Armie is coming to believe he could listen to Timmy talk about weather conditions in the Serengeti, anything, just to hear his voice.

Timmy fills his glass, sips and continues his story.

“You know how hot it gets here, and there’s not many places someone like me-”

 _Homeless_ , Armie’s conscience easily suggests. He refrains from saying it outloud, but can tell Timmy knows that’s what he’s thinking. Armie swallows.

“There are matinees everyday. Cheap. Too cheap, I don’t know why he bothers, but I’m glad he did, because I would buy a ticket and sit in that cool, darkened theater and get lost in all those films. They weren’t all old. I’ve seen a few of yours there,” Timmy winks and Armie groans from embarrassment.

“More than once, he’d come through, between films, and I’d be asleep,” he shrugs. “Some of those films just aren’t my bag, and after being up all night, well, it would just sort of… happen, you know?” Armie nods in complete understanding.

“He was always really nice about it. Most of the time would let me sleep through the next showing as well, to where, eventually, he was letting me crash there whenever I needed.”

Warmth fills Armie’s skin from the inside out, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for a man he doesn’t even know, but likes immediately, for showing kindness to a kid who needed it.

Timmy finishes his milk, placing the empty glass and silverware neatly in his empty plate, a gesture Armie finds endearing, trying to be as little inconvenience as possible. Armie takes the stack of dishes, picking up his own in his other hand and Timmy reaches for his back.

“I can do those,” his offer is quick and nervous as he bites the corner of his lip, halfway out of his seat before Armie manages to step away.

Armie shakes his head, smiling. “Nah, man. I’m just putting them in the dishwasher.”

Timmy comes around the counter, standing at Armie’s side, looking up at him. “It’s the least I can do.”

There is an edge of pleading to Timmy’s words, as if it’s important he be allowed to help in some way, so Armie, relents, nodding his head.

They work in tandem, Armie rinsing and handing them over to Timmy to place in the washer. It’s easy, companionable. They share timid smiles as their hands touch between wet, dirty plates.

Armie dries his hands as Timmy puts the milk away.

“So, Luca? He’s teaching you Italian, then?”

Timothee laughs, sitting back down. “Yeah, though he says I’m hopeless. My accent’s all wrong,” he shrugs.

“Sounded pretty good to me,” Armie confesses, rinsing the coffee pot.

His phone vibrates again, and he knows it’s one of two people: Liz or Nick. Neither of which he is looking forward to speaking to anytime soon.

“Not gonna look at that?” Timmy asks, looking at Armie’s phone.

It suddenly feels like a grenade lying there, waiting to explode at any moment.

Armie swallows,  shakes his head, setting the carafe back in the machine.  

“Might be important,” is Timmy’s answering reply, as if he’s fishing for something.

“Might be, but nothing I can’t deal with later-”

“I don’t mind, really. Don’t let me keep you from doing what you normally do.”

Armie looks at Timmy, his earnest expression, clearly keen on not being some sort of bother to Armie. Which he isn’t. Armie welcomes the distraction, but perhaps that’s what Timmy is afraid of, that he’s just a _distraction_ and not something or someone Armie could seriously want to invest time in.

Armie stops and leans in on his palms over the counter across from Timmy. It’s all or nothing now. Armie knows, any moment, Timmy can walk out that door.

He doesn’t want that.

“I know you said ‘no’. To my stupid suggestion, for you to, I don’t know, stay here, but,” he holds up a hand as Timmy’s mouth opens to object. “I’m not asking. Look, I’m not asking you to stay _forever_ or, I don’t know. But- I like you. Talking.” Armie’s throat feels so tight. “Maybe we could just hang out for a while. This week,” he looks away, as if he can look at the future play out in front of him. He brushes a hand back through his still damp hair. “I could use a… friend.”

Timmy’s eyes narrow, his lips pressed tightly together. “A friend?”

Armie nods, swallows.

"Don't you have enough of those already?"

"Maybe. Do you?"

Armie regrets his words as the silence stretches between them. He's prepared for the ‘thanks, but no thanks’ he's certain he has coming, shocked with relief right down to his toes when instead he’s answered with a soft,

“Okay.”

  



	12. Chapter 12

_ “Okay.” _

Armie stares at Timmy in disbelief. “Okay?”

Timmy looks down, wiping at the counter with his forearm; it obviously isn’t dirty. His shoulders lift in a half-shrug.

“Yeah? Okay. Good. This is… good.”

Armie can’t help but feel stupidly overjoyed by Timmy’s acceptance. He hadn’t realised how tense he’s been all morning until he hears Timmy agree to stay. He’s been subconsciously prepared to watch Timmy walk out the door at any moment, certain there was nothing he could say or do to convince him to stay. Especially not after he fucked everything up so badly the night before with his absurd offer to  _ pay him _ (the worst fucking sort of condescension, he painfully realises that now) but also, with his inability to resist, giving in to kissing him when he  _ knew _ it was so wrong.

What that said about Armie’s true intentions and his common decency spoke volumes. He wouldn’t have blamed Timmy for leaving at the very first opportunity.

But here he was, agreeing to _ stay _ , at least for the short term and Armie feels like Christmas and his birthday have come all at once. His relief is palpable. He feels the pull of his absurd smile in the strain of his cheeks, an effervescent warmth burbling in the pit of his stomach.

Timmy stares up at him, his face wide and open, shining from the inside out. It doesn’t make sense to Armie how Timmy isn’t completely ruined of hope, knowing what his life has been to this point. But when Armie looks at him, all he ever sees is Timmy beaming, radiant and so willing to  _ trust _ .

It’s why Armie hates the need to bring reality back to the conversation.

“So, maybe we should discuss… terms or-”

“No,” his smile fades. Timmy quickly holds up a hand, his sleeve sliding down his delicate forearm, revealing a slender wrist that draws Armie’s gaze like a magnet.

He swallows and looks away, grabbing the jam jar, placing it back in the fridge as Timmy continues.

“No terms. No money.  _ Friends _ , right? That’s what you said you wanted. Yeah. You don’t  _ pay  _ friends to hang out. Otherwise, I’m just going to have to suck your dick to make it even.”

Armie stumbles on nothing in the floor, his hand flying to catch the knot of the towel at his waist to keep it in place.

“Sorry.” Timmy says around a smirk. They both know he isn’t.

“No, it’s,” Armie coughs, stutters. “It’s fine. You’re right. I just- I want you to get something out of this, too.” He waves a hand between them, not certain if he’s trying to indicate the two of them or fan away the unexpected innuendo. “A two-way street.”

Timmy looks Armie up and down with a languid, green gaze before settling his eyes back on Armie’s face. It feels as intimate as if he’d reached out to touch with his finger, making Armie all-too aware of how exposed he is, practically naked, standing in the middle of his kitchen, still, in nothing but a towel. But, it isn’t just a physical nudity that forces the tremor of heat to follow in the wake of Timmy’s gaze, but the fear that Timmy can somehow discern Armie’s innermost thoughts. It’s unnerving.

“I am. Trust me.” His lip quirks before settling into something soft that is just as unnerving as Timmy’s previous heated stare. “But, you’re right. I _don’t_ have enough friends. Any, really. Except for Luca, maybe? Not sure he’d call me anything more than a _preoccupazione._ So, this,” now it’s his turn to motion between himself and Armie. “This is new but, I-” his eyes drift to somewhere over Armie’s left shoulder as he bites the corner of his lip. “I think it might be… good? To try?”

It’s as candid as a confession; a tiny step toward something deeper; a  _ trust  _ in Armie. It’s humbling, knowing friendship isn’t a commodity Timmy has much stake in.

There is a tenuous moment of connection between that stretches piano-wire tight, until the sound of his phone vibrating causes it to snap.

“You should answer whoever that is.” With a fingertip, Timmy nudges Armie’s phone toward him as he finally takes a breath.

Armie looks at it like it’s a timebomb waiting to go off. A fact that isn’t too far from the fucking truth. He’s pretty sure he knows what he’s going to read in those messages and is in no hurry to return to reality and life as he knows it.

Timmy tilts his head, watching Armie delay in reaching for the phone. His stare is curious yet pointed as he lifts his chin.  

“As a  _ friend _ , I really don’t mind you answering a text.”

Armie understands the jab instantly. Another test with a two-fold agenda. If he doesn’t look at his phone, like any normal person would around a friend, then he’s being disingenuine in his  _ claim _ that this is all about friendship. And, if Armie doesn’t at least look at the texts, then that shows what kind of  _ friend _ Armie is, to ignore one.

_ Fuck. _

A huff of breath pushes out Armie’s nose as he grabs the phone, swiping it to life. Three of the messages are from Liz. They’re the usual passive aggressive bullshit she always gives him when he’s disappointed her, so no surprise there.

The next two send a chill down Armie’s spine.

**Nick**

**< 10:22AM> Dude, wtf??? I KNEW **

**you were fucking someone.**

**WHO IS SHE????**

**No +1 till I get all the deets,**

**asshole.**

**Nick**

**< 11:13AM> You think I’m joking, my man? **

**I’m rolling up on hole 3, playing**

**18 today. Expect my sweet ass to**

**be at yours as soon as. We got**

**some catching up to do.**

Armie stares at the text until the screen goes black from idleness. He can feel Timmy’s eyes on him, wonders what he can read on Armie’s face in that moment. Does he see the anxiety in realising real life is determined to make its presence known? Can he see the sudden fear of anyone finding Timmy there with him shamefully churning in Armie’s gut?

Knowing Nick will be ‘dropping by’ sends Armie into a tailspin of panic. Nothing gets by Nick and while Armie  _ wants _ to believe he is building a friendship with Timmy, deep down, he knows no one would believe that if they found out the truth of Timmy’s situation.  How is he supposed to explain  _ who  _ Timmy is?  _ What  _ Timmy is? Not what he  _ does _ , but in relation to Armie. He keeps tossing the word ‘friend’ around like it’s nothing when his mind is screaming at him that it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

What Armie doesn’t understand (and hopes this ‘time’ with Timmy will help him figure out) is  _ how  _ this happened. How is it possible that in such a few short days, Timmy has come to be such an important fixture in Armie’s life?  He’s known Nick for ages, grown up with him since they were kids, but Armie’s never felt the desperate need for him to be near as he does with Timmy.

Armie  _ knows _ the difference but refuses look at it too closely. It’s too early to have feelings this strong. Too strong and completely one-sided.

So he can either hide Timmy and what he is, or try to explain his presence in a way that isn’t compromising and somehow doesn’t offend Timmy in the process.

_ Armie is no friend Timmy needs, that’s painfully obvious. _

No matter how much Armie tells himself he’s okay with his association with Timmy, the fact he’s scrambling would prove otherwise in Timmy’s eyes. Nothing about their interactions feels particularly black and white or in anyway platonic. Armie knows his fear in reaction to the thought of Nick or Liz or anyone finding him here with Timmy is absolutely down to the fact he doesn’t want this bubble he and Timmy are in to burst. It’s too fresh, too fragile. A house of cards built on sand. One wave and it all comes crashing down.

Armie is uncertain  _ what  _ any of this is, or could be, between the two of them, but he  _ needs _ the chance to find out and doesn’t want it to end before it’s had a chance to begin.

He looks at the time on his phone, nearly 11:30. Nick isn’t hurried when he’s playing golf, but Armie knows it’s not a game that will last more than a few more hours. The idea comes to him in a flash and though he knows it’s only delaying the inevitable, it’s all he can hope for in the moment.

He looks at Timmy, who’s been patiently sitting there, watching Armie like a hawk.

“You wanna get out of here?”

A pinch forms between Timmy’s brows  as soon as Armie speaks.

“Get out of here? And go where?”

Armie steps back, shoves a hand in his hair. “ I don’t know. Anywhere. Just get out of the house for awhile.”

There’s a long silence between them as Timmy stares at Armie. He isn’t sure what Timmy is looking for or thinking. The hum of the refrigerator drones in the background, mimicking the constant pressure Armie feels against his nerves, non-stop and incessant.

The tension of the lingering moment is cut as Archie enters the kitchen through the doggie door. Timmy’s attention thankfully diverts to watch him as he stops to lap loudly at his water dish before bounding, surprisingly (traitorously), over to Timmy, jumping up to plant his front paws on Timmy’s knee..

Armie is unable to stop the smile that forms, watching Timmy bend down close, scrubbing at Archie’s ears, cooing to him as Archie licks his face. Timmy laughs. It’s a low gasping huff of a sound, in and out. It’s unlike anything Armie’s ever heard, adorable in its peculiarity. The sound sinks into Armie, warm and precious.

He looks up at Armie, warmth rising, coloring the crests of each sharp cheekbone, tipping each ear in pink and Armie wonders how long it’s been since Timmy laughed. Armie smiles in return, too fond, but there’s no way he can pull it back once Timmy’s seen it.

But, then, like the letch he is, Armie’s eyes drift, falling to the open neck of Timmy’s robe, where it gapes, hanging loose from one shoulder. Armie’s throat goes dry, taking in the smooth, round unblemished knob of Timmy’s shoulder,  the alabaster expanse of Timmy’s hairless chest where one rose-gold nipple is exposed, pebbled in the cool air of the kitchen.

Shame burns like a torch in the cavern of Armie’s chest and he looks up and away and then quickly back to Timmy’s face. Timmy swallows, a slow bob of his Adam’s apple before  turning his unhurried attention back to Archie, whose mouth hangs open, his tongue lolling in sheer ignorant bliss of the attention as Timmy continues to rub his head.

“Can we take Archie with us?” Timmy’s voice is tight, pointedly not looking at Armie.

Armie thinks he might want Archie along to act as a buffer and agrees that might not be a bad idea.

“Archie? Sure, if you want,” Armie nods even though Timmy doesn’t see him.

Embarrassed by the fact he’s just been caught out ogling Timmy, Armie scrubs a hand across his face. He has no clue where they are headed, but he’ll make certain it’s dog-friendly. He knows he’d give Timmy the moon if only he asked.

Timmy gives Archie a final scritch before he scampers off toward the sitting room where Armie knows he’ll climb onto the sofa for a nap.

Timmy clears his throat.

“Is there- would it be okay if I took a shower?”

_ Shit. What sort of host is Armie?  _

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind, to offer any sort of amenity to Timmy. Armie has got to get his shit together or his worry and fear over anyone discovering Timmy there with him will be a moot point because he will have bounced long before that happens.

On top of that, all Timmy has with him are the literal clothes he had on his back. The wet clothes Armie had thrown in the dryer the night before.

Armie clears his throat. “Of course, yes. You don’t have to ask. I want… I would like for you to feel comfortable here? At home, you know?”

The late morning sun shines through the kitchen windows, bright and warm. There is a ray that cuts diagonally across Timmy’s face, lighting his eyes with viridescent fire.

He’s so beautiful in that moment, it takes Armie’s breath away and doubles his resolve to keep the world at bay, just a little while longer. Armie knows this can’t last, won’t last, that Timmy will eventually learn of Armie’s less-than-friendly interest and then it will be all over.

“Thanks.” His reply is soft and a little forlorn. Armie imagines it’s not an easy thing for him to manage, feeling comfortable in, not only someone else’s home, but someone else’s company.

“I need to run my ass through one, too,” Armie makes a show of sniffing his armpit but freezes when he realises there might be some other implication into his admission.

“I meant, a shower of my own,” he offers his explanation quickly. “I didn’t mean to suggest you and I-”

Timmy snorts and roll his eyes. “Yeah, none of that for you and me. I got that, loud and clear.  _ Bro. _ ”

Armie wants to take Timmy’s comment at face value but the underlying tone of disappointment makes it hard. Harder still is that it shamefully matches Armie’s own.

_ Friends. _

Decision made to ignore the comment, Armie lifts his chin in the direction of the stairs.

“Come on, let me grab your clothes out of the dryer and I’ll show you the guest bath and the room you can call your own for as long as you want.”

 

*************

 

“What is this?”

Armie is sitting on the edge of his bed, tying his shoes, when Timmy stops just inside the bedroom door.

His hair is still damp, the curl showing at the upturned ends. It’s combed and parted on the side, the long lengths tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing the Dallas Cowboys t-shirt Armie placed on his bed while he was in the shower. The t-shirt is an older one of Armie’s, but still in good condition, and even though it’s now too small for Armie, it hangs loose on Timmy’s slender frame, He thought having seen Timmy in his bathrobe might have made him immune to Timmy in his clothes, but based on the swooping sensation in his stomach, that is not the case.

Armie had also him a pair of drawstring track pants which he knew would be miles too long on Timmy but had to be better than the robe to kick around in, and some  _ new _ underwear (which he will definitely not inquire on whether he’s wearing or not.)

He’s thankful he’s sitting down, certain his knees would have given way at the sight, knowing there was no way to hide just how much he _enjoyed_ seeing Timmy in his clothes. As Armie struggles for control over his errant train of thought— and bodily reactions—  Timmy holds his arm out, a backpack hanging from his fingers.

Armie sits up, hands no his knees. “It’s a backpack?”

Timmy rolls his eyes, unzipping it.“Okay, smartass, then what is this?” reaching in, he holds up a pair of headphones and a phone charger.

Armie closes his eyes and sighs. When he opens them again, Timmy is still standing there, holding the items out like an accusation. He had shown Timmy to the room he could use, leaving him to shower when it had dawned on him that he didn’t have anything to put on except his dirty clothes from the day before. So he had walked into this closet and pulled out spare items he thought Timmy could use. It hadn’t crossed his mind that Timmy would think he was somehow going against their deal.

“Look, your shit was stolen. I had that stuff lying around and I’m not using them so I thought you could.: Armie shrugs. “I know you must need to charge your phone, that’s just an old cord I had. I only use earbuds because the only time I use headphones is when I run and wearing those big ass things are fucking impossible. I’m not even sure  _ why _ I have ones like that. Don’t remember where they came from now, to be honest. And the backpack is one I used maybe once? I didn’t think there would be a problem?” Armie knows his exasperation is clearly evident in the rush of his explanation.

“We  _ agreed _ . No money on this deal. Jesus,” Timmy looks at the headphones before looking back over at Armie. “This is at least a $300 pair of headphones and you’re just going to  _ give _ them to me? For nothing?”

“Timmy-” Armie ignores the hitch in his voice as he says his name. Timmy’s eyes go wide, his mouth opens. “I’m  _ generous _ with my friends.”

Timmy scoffs. “There’s generous and then there’s this. You don’t even know me, wh-”

Armie stands as he holds up a hand and Timmy’s words come to an immediate halt, his mouth left open. Just a complete dead stop.  A rush of heat flashes up Armie’s spine witnessing his instant capitulation.

He takes a deep breath, hands clamped in tight fists at his sides.

“Really? I think it’s pretty safe to say I’m probably one of the  _ only _ people who knows you now, don’t you think?”

Timmy’s mouth snaps shut and he looks down at the ground, his shoulders sagging.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Shit,” Armie starts to take a step forward. “No, I know. I’m sorry, I was out of line with that.” Armie’s hands are on his hips now, he looks at his feet before tipping a smile in Timmy’s direction. “Look, this,” he waves a hand between them. “You and me. Friends, pals, whatever the fuck we want to call it. It’s unconventional and I don’t know what I’m doing any more than you do. All I  _ do  _ know is, a pair of headphones and a used backpack is more of a fucking bargain than the therapy I pay for, that  _ doesn’t _ work by the way. But this, for whatever reason, does, so. Please. Take the fucking headphones and enjoy, okay?”

There’s laughter in his voice by the end of his spiel and he’s happy to see a small smile of Timmy’s own in response.

“Have to say, Hammer, that is a first.”

There is no reason Armie should get a flutter in the pit of his stomach hearing Timmy call him ‘Hammer’ but damn if he doesn’t. He clears his throat.

“Well, I mean it. Spending time with you has been… the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. It’s not unappreciated.” He nods at the items Timmy holds in his hand.

Timmy nods and puts the headphones back in the bag. “Thanks. I-” he scrubs a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I appreciate it, too. And not just this stuff.”

Armie feels warm all over. “You’re welcome.”

A second of nervous silence falls between them before Armie finally claps his hands together.

“Shall we plow?”

Timmy slides the backpack on. “Ready if you are.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be heading out of town later this week for a family vacation. I hope to find some writing time, but it may not play out that way, so unfortunately, there may not be an update next week. I'm sorry and trust me, I'm gonna miss them just as much as you all are.
> 
> And, I know I am behind on answering comments, but please know I read them all and appreciate each and ever one so very much.
> 
> peace and love,  
> ~moni


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promise the burn is gonna pay off soon. <3

_ “Ready if you are.” _

Timmy stands in the doorway, a silent sentinel, as Armie packs a bag of bare essentials needed for a couple of days away, trying not to feel self-conscious as he does. When he’s finished, they head downstairs where Armie detours into his office, grabbing a few things off his desk that he should have looked at days ago. These all get stuffed into a leather messenger bag which he hands to Timmy.

“Do you mind?”

“Yes, please,” Timmy offers softly, clearly glad to be of some use to Armie, if only in this way. He slings his near-empty backpack onto his shoulders and takes the bag from Armie, holding it by the strap wrapped around both fists in front of him.

“Thanks, man,” he clears his throat, a tight smile on his face as he goes around Timmy, duffel in one hand, and back out the door.

Armie’s back is too stiff, too straight, as he walks down the hall with Timmy behind him. There is an uncertain quality to the air between them and he doesn’t know how to rid them of it. He longs for the simplicity and easy camaraderie they’d had during their nighttime sojourns. There is guilt somewhere in the back of his mind, for having let this  _ thing _ between he and Timmy spiral into whatever it’s become now. Teetering on the brink of  _ more  _ as they both fight the inevitable.

He knows running off with Timmy isn’t the answer either,  but he can’t be arsed to care at this point. It feels  _ vital _ in a way he can’t process, and he understands putting off his real-life obligations isn’t the answer either but doesn’t fight it, running on pure adrenaline at the moment. The guilt and retribution for his actions will be here, waiting, once they return, but he leaves it for now, determined to get out of here and away before real life can intrude any further.

Timmy follows him, watching without questioning. Armie finally leads him through the kitchen and into his overly-spacious garage. It’s disgustingly cliché, nearly as many square feet as the house and Armie feels the prickle of heated shame on the back of his neck, chagrined by the vacuous need for such a large space to house  _ automobiles _ . Compared to Timmy’s humble existence, he knows it’s a disgusting display of excess.

This sort of  _ extravagance  _  had been at the core of what drove him and Elizabeth apart in the first place— her need to ‘keep up appearances’ and live the extravagant Hollywood lifestyle, when all Armie wanted was to kick around in a tracksuit and stay home, maybe grill a steak and have the guys over. But looking at his life and how he lives it through Timmy’s eyes, he can’t say he is any better than Liz about it all.

The cavernous room is spotless, one wall covered in shelves, filled with ‘stuff’ Armie never uses, another example of the waste he perpetuates on a daily basis. He’s grateful Timmy chooses not to comment, as he’s perfectly capable of beating himself up enough for the both of them.   

There is a hulking, canvas-covered motorcycle Armie would love to take out. An image pops too readily into his mind of Timmy pressed against his back, arms wrapped around Armie’s waist, tightening as they lean into a curve. It’s too real in his mind, making him feel hot and flushed. Armie clears his throat, not daring to look in Timmy’s direction, hoping he can’t read it all on his face. He’s suddenly too thankful Timmy asked to bring Archie along, uncertain  how long his self-restraint would have lasted, had they taken off on the bike.

Beside the bike sits a sleek, white Aston Martin, a self-indulgent purchase Armie claims to anyone who asks that he purchased to celebrate his thirtieth birthday, when in fact, it was a self-congratulatory ‘fuck you’ to Elizabeth when the divorce was finalised. 

Same for the bike, since she had always  _ forbidden _ him having one while they were married, relegating him to an emasculating scooter for fuck’s sake.

Timmy whistles low, through his teeth, at sight of the car. “Nice.”

Armie nods, a little too proud over the fact it sits there.  He knows owning it makes him look like a pretentious asshole (the balance of probability seems swayed in that direction so he might as well embrace it now) but he fucking loves that car.

Timmy doesn’t say anything more, just nods in agreement, his eyes still scanning every inch of Armie’s prized possession.

But it isn’t exactly something to drive when you want to go unnoticed, unfortunately, and that’s the exact reason he walks past it, much to both of their disappointment, to his truck which he loves just as much but for very different reasons.

No one would look twice at the truck, where the car might as well have its own spotlight.

“Come on, Archie,” he calls out as Archie scampers across the smooth, concrete floor before sitting obediently at Armie’s feet.

He takes out the two carseats in the back, hanging them on their designated hooks on the wall behind him before hauling Archie up into the backseat. Dropping his bag in the floorboard behind the driver’s seat, Armie watches from the corner of his eye as Timmy uses his long legs and easily hoists himself into the passenger seat. Timmy’s brow lifts, because of course he notices Armie watching. Timmy places Armie’s messenger bag in the seat beside him as and pointedly aims the look in Armie’s direction.

“What?” Armie asks, his tone defensive as he climbs in behind the wheel.

“Big truck,” Timmy innocently teases, slamming the door shut, pulling on his seatbelt.

“Big man,” Armie chides in return, forcing Timmy to double down on the smirk lifting  one corner of his mouth.

“You got me there,” Timmy chuckles, shaking his head, the cab of the truck suddenly too warm to breathe.  

Armie fails to ignore the fact they sit so close. He tries desperately in vain  _ not _ to imagine reaching over to place his hand on Timmy’s narrow thigh, how slowly he would be able to feel the warmth of Timmy’s skin bleed through the denim and into his resting palm. Armie swallows hard as they fall silent and he focuses on the road, ignoring the spike of heat rising up his throat as he navigates the early afternoon traffic.

Once they are well out of town, a last minute decision has Armie making a sudden turn, pulling into a Target parking lot. Timmy looks out the window, before facing Armie, his face contorted into a comical scrunch as Armie shuts off the engine.

“This is where you wanted- we’re going  _ shopping? _ ” Timmy sputters.

Armie laughs, lifting the lid of the console on the seat between them. He pulls out a camo ball cap and slides it on low over his brow.  He knows it really doesn’t do much in terms of  _ disguise _ or hiding his appearance since fooling people into not noticing someone that is 6’5” is a feat he hasn’t mastered. He does it more for his own sake, hiding behind a cap and glasses, soothing his own peace of mind so as not to  feel so exposed in public.

Timmy takes it in stride, peering into the console before lifting out another cap, holding it up to read the label stitched across the top.

“Brentwood Country Mart?  _ Really? _ Does anyone in Brentwood even know what ‘country’ is?” He teases before tilting his head back, shaking the hair out of his face before tucking stray strands behind his ears and plopping the cap on his head. His hair still sticks out in every crazy direction around his ears and nape but Armie doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s more likely to make people  _ stare  _ at him than have him blend in. That and the fact that it’s one more article of clothing belonging to Armie  he is wearing and that is making him feel things best not dwelled upon.

“Maybe we can stop in and you can ask them on the way back,” Armie chides, checking the time before he rolls the windows down partially. It’s not too hot, but he doesn’t want to take a chance with leaving Archie in the truck too long.

“Ha, don’t think I won’t. I’ll ask them to show me where Tennessee is on a map.”

“I have zero doubt you would do just that,” Armie rolls his eyes and barks out a laugh as he watches Timmy literally jump out of the truck, landing on his feet like a cat.  

Armie gets out and walks around to where Timmy waits, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Seriously, though.  _ This  _ is where you wanted to go?” He asks as Armie heads toward the entrance knowing Timmy will follow.

Over his shoulder, Armie announces, “Dude, I’m not riding around in this southern California heat with your ass in three day old clothes. And I’m certainly not lending you any more of my underwear.”

He hears the sudden cessation of Timmy’s footsteps behind him and turns to see Timmy standing there, staring at him. The look on his face is priceless, shocked indignance.

He lifts each arm in turn, sniffing at his armpits.

“I stink?” His tone is incredulous, as if the possibility is something he never would have imagined.

Armie shakes his head, fighting the urge laugh. “No, but you will at some point. I’m not keen to find out at what point that might be.” Armie smiles, lifting his chin in the direction of the store.  “Come on, I don’t want to leave Arch out here too long. Let’s make this quick and dirty.” Armie turns and walks on.

Timmy jogs to catch up to him, knocking into Armie’s with his shoulder as he falls into step beside him.

“‘ _ Quick and dirty’ _ ? Why, Mr Hammer, I was hoping you would see things my way.” Timmy all but croons, quickly reminding Armie just who he’s dealing with here.

Armie rolls his shoulders, deciding the comment is best left ignored. For both their sakes.

They manage fairly well to go undetected during the excursion. There are a couple of people who do the requisite double take but no cell phones are taken out. So, all in all, they mostly fly under the radar. The shopping, however, doesn’t go as smoothly, or as quickly, as Armie hopes, with Timmy balking every step of the way until Armie has enough.

Grabbing Timmy by the elbow, Armie pulls him aside, essentially hiding them between racks of jeans he asked Timmy to choose from.

“Look I’m not splashing out for  _ designer fucking clothes  _ here. You need them, we’re getting them. Stop fighting me on this or-” Armie’s voice is low and forceful before he realises what he is about to say. He bites his tongue, struggling to overcome the sudden compulsion to forcefully  _ direct _ Timmy’s actions.

Armie’s thumb rests against the bend of Timmy’s elbow while  his fingers slip beneath the hem of his sleeve, pressing into his triceps. They stand too close sharing the same air and as Armie looks down into Timmy’s face, he knows this isn’t a  _ new _ phenomenon.

It isn’t the same slipping-into-a-warm-bath feeling of their shared kiss the night before. No, this is sensation rooted in something much darker, more primal. This… this flash of sudden heat, scorching Armie’s fingers where he holds onto Timmy is what he experienced in the diner. A visceral reaction Armie fears to categorize.

For the blink of a moment, Armie hopes to chalk it all up to residual frustration over the fear of real-life interference causing him to be short-tempered but the moment the look on Timmy’s face registers, he knows it’s all a lost cause.

Timmy stares up at him, mouth open, his eyes wide but darkened by the fact his pupils are now the size of dinner plates. His head is bent back, exposing the long ivory column of his neck. Armie can see his pulse thrumming at the hollow of his throat, his chest rising and falling quickly with his panting breaths through his mouth. Armie feels the slow inexorable puddle of heat coalescing in his core as he watches the glistening pink tip of Timmy’s tongue slip past his teeth and swipe at his lower lip.

“ _ Or what? _ ” Timmy asks, low and deliberate.  _ Willing. _ He blinks, a slow flutter of lashes and it’s all Armie can take.

He drops Timmy’s arm as if he’s been scalded, taking a quick step back. Timmy sways a moment, his face pale except for two bright blotches of red staining each cheek. He turns away, rubbing a hand up the back of his neck.

Armie clears his throat. “Just grab what you might need for a… week,” it’s an arbitrary amount of time but the best Armie can manage. “I’ll meet you at the front registers when you’re done.”

 

******

 

“So, can I ask you something?”

The ribbon of the Pacific Coast Highway unspools before them, winding and twisting as  they drive north out of Los Angeles. Archie ‘technically’ sits in the backseat, though his head and front paws rest on the console between Armie and Timmy in the cab of  Armie’s truck. Timmy absently pets Archie’s head as Armie focuses on the road ahead of them.

Neither has spoken since the shopping interlude and the unexpected sound of Timmy’s voice gives Armie a jolt, terrified of what he may ask.

Armie’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white.

“Sure, you can ask, doesn’t mean I’ll answer, though.”

Timmy hums, the finger of his right hand tapping against the armrest of the door. He stares out the window as if fascinated by the wall of rock and scrub brush that pass in a blur.

“Where are we going?”

Armie glances at him from the corner of his eye, taking in his profile, the way his hair curls around his ears beneath the hat he still wears. Timmy runs a nail along the rubber seal at the bottom of the window, purposefully keeping himself from looking Armie in the eye.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Armie doesn’t know. He has no idea where they are going, or really  _ why _ he was so determined to leave the house. It’s only putting off the inevitable.

“Does there have to be a destination?” Armie leans forward, adjusting the vent of the air conditioning that doesn’t need adjusting.

Timmy shifts in his seat, sliding his shoes off before placing his sock-clad feet up on the dash. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he hugs them to his chest.

“Are we going to have a philosophical discussion now? ‘What is the meaning of life ’type bullshit? Because, man, we could have done that back at your place, you know? In the pool or watching a movie, or you know-” he makes a motion with his hand and mouth, explicit sign language Armie disregards for his own sanity.

He really wishes Timmy would stop with the overt sexual advances. It’s not only beneath him, it gets progressively harder for Armie to fucking ignore, to not just fucking  _ give in, _ every time he does it.

Armie sighs, checking the rear view mirror in an attempt, he knows, to stall for time. He can feel Timmy’s eyes on him, waiting for Armie’s answer.

“Look, I don’t have a plan here. I just… why can’t we just treat this like all the other times we’ve been together? There was never a destination then, why does there have to be one now?”

The silence seems endless. Armie doesn’t have the balls to face Timmy’s stare.

“Can you at least tell me  _ why _ we are running?”

Armie’s shoulders sag. Defeated. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible.

“I don’t know.”

The silence is shorter this time, but the guilt of the lie hangs like a stone around Armie’s neck. Of course he  _ knows _ why he’s running but to tell Timmy would be nothing short of peeling his skin from his bones, revealing too much Armie wants— needs— to keep hidden. Buried.

“Okay.”

It’s just as quiet as Armie’s previous answer and it breaks something very deep, very fragile within Armie for Timmy to acquiesce so easily. If anyone could  _ understand _ Armie’s behavior in justifying his reasons for what essentially equates to a grown ass man running away from home, it would be Timmy. Armie  _ wants _ to share, he just doesn’t know how to overcome the ingrained sense of his lack of worth in order to share this sort of burden.

Something of this internal struggle must be playing out on Armie’s face as he suddenly feels the timid weight of Timmy’s hand on his knee. Armie dares to take his eyes from the road to look at it there, long pale fingers in such stark contrast to the denim of his jeans. Armie can feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric. There is a gentle squeeze before Timmy removes it. Armie looks over at him to see a soft smile of understanding on his lips, his eyes warm and thoughtful.

“It’s  _ okay. _ ”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

_“It’s okay.”_

Armie's throat tightens, jaw clenched. He blinks back sudden irritation, convincing himself it’s nothing but the air conditioning blowing in his face even though he knows it's not. He’s drowning in his own uncertainty while finding it impossible to understand how Timmy houses a seemingly bottomless well of understanding.

Compared to Timmy, Armie knows he’s lived a charmed life. If the roles were reversed, Armie would be telling Timmy he should be fucking _grateful_ instead of the moping, tormented piece of shit he is now. Timmy shouldn’t be placating him and trying to make him _feel better._ The shame in knowing that he is burns like acid in the pit of Armie’s stomach.

Armie _knows_ Timmy sees right through him, that he understands Armie is using ‘ _I don’t know’_ as some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card. A stopgap in the moment.  A lie premeditated to shift the focus away from the idea of having to look inside himself while Timmy goes along, without fault or question. Another reminder of the inequality Timmy believes exists in their relationship.

It’s fascinating to Armie, looking at them from the outside and see Timmy somehow understands the moments when Armie just _can’t_ cope, can’t deal, and he doesn’t push further.  From the moment they met, Timmy has seen through Armie like no one ever has, and yet he doesn’t insist Armie reveal anything. Doesn’t ask anything of him at all.

The cab of the truck lurches, the tires thumping out a rhythm along the grooved pavement on the shoulder of the road, as the truck strays too close to the edge of asphalt and Armie quickly over-corrects. Timmy reaches behind, trying to keep Archie stable in the backseat with a low chuckle. Armie settles his eyes, determined, back on the road and  forces a breath past the clenched fist lodged in his esophagus.

The road twists and turns. The view is obscured most of the way by trees and steep rocky outcrops, but occasionally, it opens to reveal the wide expanse of Pacific blue reaching towards the horizon.

It should be enough to hold his attention, but he can’t keep from watching Timmy from the corner of his eye. His feet are back on the dash, tapping out a matching rhythm to the drumming of his fingers on his thighs. His mouth moves, singing to himself.

“You can turn the radio on if you want.” Armie lifts his chin toward the dash, indicating Timmy can help himself.

He laughs softly, shaking his head, realising he’s been caught out. “I’m good.”

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

“Nah, man. Thanks.”

Timmy stares at him another long moment before his eyes settle on the bag lying in the floorboard between them. He takes it and begins rummaging through it before he suddenly stops. “Sorry, guess I should have asked? ”

Armie is somehow managing a pretty good job of staring at him while driving.

“Is this okay?” His hands remain still,  holding the bag up, flap unbuckled, sincere in waiting for permission.

Armie clears his throat. “No, um, help yourself. They’re just scripts I've been meaning to look over for a while now.” A laugh forces its way through Armie's nose. He shakes his head, looking out the driver’s side window briefly, speaking more to himself than Timmy. “Not that it's gonna matter in a couple of weeks.”

Timmy takes out the blue-covered manuscripts. There are four, varied in subject, each having caught Armie’s attention once his agent had supplied brief outlines. They weren't the kind roles normally offered to Armie, but for some reason, he wanted to read them anyway. His agent had reluctantly passed them over with a shrug and told him to let him know if he wanted to try and read for any of them. He knew it had only been lip-service and nothing at all to do with believing in his client’s ability.

_Even a future has-been can dream._

Timmy flips through a page or two of the first script before tossing it onto the dash, dismissed.

“You really think it's over for you, dont you?”

He thumbs the cover page open on the next. If anyone else were around, they would think Timmy was only making casual conversation, but Armie can feel the weight of his implication in the heavy air of the truck cab.

He wishes he had turned on the radio. The noise of the engine and the whir of the air forced through the vents is oppressive. Armie looks over at him, his finger tracing down the page as he reads. He turns the page; he continues the conversation.

“One bad film and it's really over? You're good, how can they hold the circumstances of this film against _you_ of all people?”

Armie removes his cap, sweeping his hand back through his sweat-dampened hair. “That's how this system works. Someone has to take the fall. It's my face out there, so it's the perfect target.”

Timmy hums and Armie thinks he's stopped listening as he continues to read, as if he isn't stealthily trying to crack Armie wide open.

“I don’t understand why you ever took that role to begin with,” his thumb holds his place in the script, green eyes narrowed, intent,  searching inside Armie’s head for the answer he wants. It’s unnerving. “You went from really amazing supporting roles in some fantastic small, indie films. Why a fucking _blockbuster_ now?”

Armie struggles with a momentary flush of pride, knowing Timmy _knew_ his work. He had mentioned seeing some of it, but never what he actually thought about any of it. Armie knows it shouldn't mean  as much as it does to him.

But Timmy's admiration doesn’t negate the question he’s just posed- _Why now?_ Wasn’t _that_ the fucking question of the century?

“Why not? Isn’t that the goal of every actor?”

Timmy huffs a laugh. “So, what? Your dream has always been to actually be _la muvi star_ ? It’s just all about ‘fame’ for you? Wow, I _totally_ misjudged you, man.” Timmy sighs, shakes his head before opening the script backup, clearly disappointed and finished with the conversation.

Something bristles within Armie. He sits up in his seat, shoulders hunched, hands gripping too tightly to the wheel.

“That wasn’t my _dream_ -”

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to justify anything to me,” Timmy’s retort is clipped, his disappointment made more apparent as he keeps reading, adamantly refusing to look at Armie.

“I’m not trying to-,” Armie struggles. He’s not sure if he’s more exasperated by Timmy’s questioning of his choices or just how poorly he’s managing to justify himself. This is not something Armie ever allows himself to think about. “Look, it wasn’t my dream to be _famous_. It’s just how these things go. There comes a point in this line of work where you have to decide what’s best for your future and-”

“So _you_ decided to forego the meaningful roles for something mainstream in order to become famous even though you never wanted to be famous?” Timmy tilts his head as he looks over at Armie, musing. “I call bullshit.”

Armie’s mouth closes with an audible clack of teeth. “You know fuck all, kid.”

Timmy snorts and Armie sees red. It shouldn’t piss him, off but it does. When backed into a corner, Armie always goes for the jugular.

“I suppose it’s hard for someone to understand the concept of making sacrifices when they have no responsibilities or family to have to consider when making decisions.”

The words are bitter and hateful and Armie regrets them the moment they fall from his lips.  There is a barely audible intake of breath from Timmy and Armie wishes he would just punch him. He deserves it. He wants Timmy to ask him to pull over and get out of the truck, walk away and never look back because what he has just said is unforgivable.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” Armie swallows, looks over at Timmy.

He’s looking out the passenger window, bottom lip held tight between his teeth.

“Timmy,” Armie speaks his name softly, full of regret.

Timmy’s hand lies atop the script in his lap. Armie reaches over, is allowed to gently squeeze his wrist before Timmy removes it from his grasp, only to replace Armie’s hand with his own, long pale fingers around slender wrist.

Watching him, replicating Armie’s touch, hammers home the reminder Timmy has never had anyone reach out to him, in apology, in comfort. It redoubles Armie’s guilt and shame. His mouth works, trying to form words, to say _something_ to make up for what he just said, but Timmy beats him to it in a voice barely above a whisper

“I think,” he has to clear his throat before he can continue, straining. “I think not having the responsibilities of a family makes me understand better than you could ever imagine. Losing them, being alone, only makes me realise living for someone _else_ is not the answer.”

He turns, stares at Armie until Armie meets his gaze. He suddenly feels as if he’s falling into a wide green sea. A wave of nostalgia rising, crashing onto the beach outside that tiny island home, where  he had grown up, fostered in the color of a storm-tossed ocean outside his bedroom window. Timmy’s eyes. Home.

Timmy turns away, stares out the window and straight ahead. The loss of the grounding weight of Timmy’s gaze leaves Armie unmoored.

“I’m alone, Armie, but I know who I am. Do you?”

The fist in his throats tightens once more.

Armie never liked looking in a mirror.

 

********

 

The only thing that breaks the tension of silence nearly an hour later is the soft gurgling rumble of Timmy’s stomach. Timmy looks sheepish as Armie suggests they stop for lunch but shrugs reluctantly in agreement. There aren’t a lot of choices and the places they do find are all packed with the lunchtime rush, so they opt for drive-through before finding a secluded pull off further from the town they are in.

There’s a shaded parking area down a small drive, hidden from the main road. A footpath cuts between boulders and scrubby pines, leading to a wide, deserted beach. Armie backs the truck in facing the beach and they set up with the food on the tailgate. Archie races round, peeing on everything he can find even though Armie knows he should have him on a leash. With no one around, he figures he might as well let him roam.

Armie hates the tension between them now. Walking on pins and needles, he’s clueless on where he stands with Timmy, or how things are supposed to go on from here. The burger he would normally relish, tastes like ash in his mouth.

Timmy’s feet dangle, swinging back and forth, as he licks sauce off his fingers from the animal-style fries they are sharing. Every other bite of his burger, he breaks off a piece and tosses it to a very happy Archie sitting on the ground in front of him.

Armie shakes his head, surprising himself by finding laughter in his voice. “You’re spoiling him.”

Timmy leans his head back, mouth wide open as he lowers a chili, cheese and sauce covered fry into his mouth. “I never understood that,” he says, chewing around words.

“What’s that?” Armie wads up the paper that once held his burger into a greasy ball, placing it back in the bag.  He grabs a fry from the box that sits between their thighs.

“Spoiling someone. Or some _thing_ . Everyone makes it out to be a bad thing. Isn’t that just _loving_ someone? To want them to have everything? To be happy?”

Armie stops, mid-chew, and looks at Timmy. He continues to eat as if what he’s just said hasn’t actually rocked Armie to his foundations.

To meet someone who doesn’t know or understand the difference between love and spoiling is something Armie never imagined. How odd an idea that must be to someone who’s never had love, let alone an abundance of it. He might as well have reached into Armie’s chest and squeezed his heart with his bare fist.

Suddenly, Armie isn’t sure _why_ he’s ever held back love out of fear of spoiling. He’s certain he’s done it to his kids, denied them things that didn’t matter in the end, all because he thought he was doing right by them.

_Timmy needs someone to spoil him for a change._

Armie stares at Timmy’s profile. The breeze off the water seems to dance around his head, lifting, teasing individual curls into movement beneath the confines of Armie’s cap he wears. Armie is mesmerised by the play of muscle in his jaw as he chews, the slow undulation of his throat when he swallows makes Armie’s mouth go dry.

Timmy’s doing nothing provocative, merely  looking at the water, the trace of a wondrous, child-like smile on his face. _Contented_.  Just to be sitting there in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing special in borrowed clothes, sharing an order of  fries. It lights Armie up from the inside out with an unnameable pleasure just to witness it.

It also puts into sharp focus the _difference_ Timmy represents. In everything. Armie can’t help but compare him in this moment to everyone else he knows. Everyone he calls a _friend_ and all they want and expect from him now.

He forces himself to look away, his blood running cold when he realises how caught out he would be if Timmy looked at him now. He would see… too much.

Armie stands, stretching his arms over his head with an exaggerated yawn. “Think I’ll take Archie down the beach for a walk.”

He doesn’t suggest Timmy come along and Timmy seems content to stay behind, an unspoken agreement in understanding they both need a little space right now.

“Sounds good. Think I’ll finish reading that script,” Timmy gathers all their lunch leftovers, stuffing them in the bag they came in and hopping off the back of the truck. He tosses the trash into the bin from halfway across the parking lot.

His smile is lights up his whole face when it makes it in. “Always wanted to play basketball,” he says with a shrug when he sees Armie looking at him with notable admiration in making the shot.

 

********

 

Armie drops his shoes onto the sand before flopping himself down beside them. He’s covered in sand already as it clings to his sweat- and surf-dampened clothes. He had chased and ran beside Archie down the beach for more than a mile before turning back. He’d removed his shoes, cuffed his jeans and walked in the surf the last few hundred yards before spotting Timmy lying in the sand on his stomach across what Armie recognises as a towel left behind by Harper.

Armie remembers her leaving it  in the truck a couple of weeks ago after he’d lost track of time with the kids on the beach and raced them both back to Liz’s in wet swimsuits. The corner of Armie’s mouth lifts finding Timmy lying on a towel emblazoned with _Barbie_ written in bright pink letters.

“Hey, watch it,” he scolds, swiping sand off the manuscript he’s still reading.

“Nice towel,” Armie smirks in response, hoping they can maintain the air of joviality  between them as long as possible.

Timmy pushes up on his hands and looks at the towel beneath him and grunts in acknowledgement. “Barbie’s cool,” he drops back to his elbows and continues reading.

Armie hums, sits back on his palms and closes his eyes. The sound of surf softly lulling him as the breeze strokes the hair at the nape of his neck, chilling his skin beneath his damp clothes. He knows he could stay here like this forever.

Just as he’s about to doze Timmy sighs heavily beside him. He’s sitting up now, feet stretched out ahead of him, staring at the ocean, the manuscript in his lap. He is wearing Armie’s sunglasses along with the cap and a warm flush rises from Armie’s chest as he decides he _really_ likes the look of himself on Timmy.

Armie dusts the sand off his hands as best he can, watching Timmy take the glasses off and wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. He sniffs wetly and Armie can see the sun glint off the dampness of his lashes.

“You okay?” Armie asks, wanting to reach out and touch him somehow, comfort him but holds back, remembering how he had pulled away in the truck earlier.

He sniffs again, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe at his nose. His mouth quirks in a twisty grin as he catches Armie smiling. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” he waves his hand in dismissal. He’s seen his kids do the same thing so many times. He plants the bottom of his feet in the sand, propping his forearms across his knees. “But, really, are you okay?”

“Me okay,” he answers softly. He shuffles the edge of the manuscript between his thumb and forefinger, like a deck of cards before handing it back to Armie. “You _really_ need to read that and you _really_ need to charm whoever you have to for the chance to read for the lead.”

Armie takes the papers from his hand, reading the title before he places it on the sand at his hip. “We’ll see.” He doesn’t even try to sound convincing.

Timmy sighs. “I know these are the scripts _you_ wanted to look at. Now. In the middle of this whirlwind of bullshit you are in. In the middle of whatever the fuck is going on with you and me. _These_ are the ones that spoke to you. There isn’t a mainstream film in any of these. These are the stories you want to tell. You want to push yourself, you want to show you are more than just that pretty fucking face. That you are real and can act and be taken seriously-”

“No one takes me seriously,” Armie scoffs.  

“ _Jesus,_ Armie, you really do believe that, don’t you?” Timmy kicks at the sand in a sudden rush of anger. “You can’t just _give up_.”

“I’m not giving up.”

They both know that’s not true, staring at the waves and their ceaseless, restless motion so long Armie feels himself wanting to sway in time, to chase them back from the sand and retreat into the dark water beneath their white crests.

“What are you running from, Armie?” Timmy suddenly asks. Armie starts to answer  but Timmy holds up a hand. “No fudging this time. There’s a-, there’s a reason I’m here. With you. There’s a reason why _we_ are here. So, just… If I can’t be of any other use to you, then please. Just _talk_ to me. ”

Timmy stares him boldly in the eye and Armie can feel every excuse he might use dying on his tongue. Can see the walls he’s built around himself begin to crack and crumble.

A breath stutters in Armie’s chest. His lips, the tips of his fingers suddenly go numb, like that sudden onset of fear when someone jumps out of nowhere and scares the shit out of you. His mouth runs dry but he can feel the words clawing up the back of his throat.

“Do you ever get that feeling,” Armie starts slowly, voice barely audible over the sound of sea and wind. “Like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and you know you’re going to have to jump because there’s no other way down?”

Timmy nods, knowing it’s more important Armie keep speaking than add anything to the conversation. His face is as always, so open, so earnest to _hear_ everything Armie has to say.

No one ever _listens_ to Armie. Not about roles he wants to take- _“Let’s get you established as a box office draw and then you can have any pick of film you want”_ . Not about his children- _“Public school is out of the question. They’re_ Hammers! _”_ Armie has spent his whole life doing, saying, _acting_ as everyone else thought he should.

Armie avoids Timmy’s eyes as he traces his initials with a forefinger in the sand between his feet. “Everything in my life feels like it’s about to come crashing down around me and I just-” he lifts his head, squinting as he looks off down the beach. “I know I can’t stop it happening, but I wanted to… hold it back as long as possible.”

When Armie looks back at Timmy, his head rests across his crossed forearms atop his bent knees. His smile is soft, his green eyes dancing all over Armie’s face before they settle and he suddenly stands in one graceful movement, holding his his hand out for Armie to take.

“What?” Armie hesitates.

“If we’re going to avoid real life, we can at least have some fun while doing it.” Armie is about to protest when Timmy rolls his eyes,  “Let’s go swimming.”

“Right now?” he blinks, staring up into Timmy’s face.

“Why not?” He thrusts  his hand pointedly in front of Armie’s face.

Armie quickly looks around, up and down the beach, finding them still alone before placing his hand in Timmy’s. They stand too close, hands still entwined before Timmy steps back, toeing off his shoes.

Armie knows it’s a bad idea, that all it would take would be _one_ person to show up and recognise him, snap a picture and he would be well and truly fucked. But Timmy’s laugh is infectious as he hops on one foot, trying to pull his jeans off, and Armie gives up. For once he’s going to do what he wants without taking anyone or anything else into consideration.

His clothes add to the pile of Timmy’s atop the Barbie towel until they are both standing in the sand in nothing but underwear.

“Come on, Hammer,” Timmy teases, backing away slowly before turning, racing towards the surf.

Armie doesn't think about it and takes off after him like a shot, his longer, stronger legs easily overtaking him, bounding into the water until he dives headfirst beneath a crashing wave. The water is warm and welcoming as he gives in, gives over, to its power. It tosses him ass over tea kettle. He tumbles beneath the wave, the watery, muted roar of its power filling his head, wiping every other thought away as he struggles to right himself until he can look up, see daylight. He surfaces with a whoop, breathless and laughing.

Timmy’s head pops up beside him seconds later, breaking the surface of the water like some kind of storm-tossed merman, long hair covering his eyes before he shoves it out of his face. He looks at Armie, smiling with his whole, open-mouthed and bright. Archie barks and splashes in the shallows, eager to play but too scared to take the plunge.

Armie recognises that feeling. He tips his head to the sky, floating, and feels a smile  split his face wide open. He’s never felt so free.

 

********

 

They swim and splash and chase each other like boys and not the grown ass men they both are. Timmy clings to Armie’s back like a limpet, trying to shove him under the water. Armie knows they must look ridiculous as he tries to shake him off. They are both laughing so hard they can’t breathe, have no strength as Armie shuttles them closer to shore where a wave knocks them over and they land in a heap of limbs and laughter, sand sticking to their wet skin.

Another wave crashes onto the beach, its foamy tendrils washing over their feet and calves as they struggle to catch their breath. The sun breaks into tiny fractals, a million points of shimmering light glinting off the surface of the water. Armie imagines each one a universe of its own, but here he is, lucky enough to be in this one, right here.

Armie can feel every inch of Timmy’s skin pressed against his own, can feel his chest heave with dying laughter, in sync now with Armie’s own breathing. One hand is caught between the sand and Timmy’s hip, the other grips Timmy’s elbow, holding it above his head.

Neither of them think to move. Armie can only stare into Timmy’s mesmerising face. In the green of his eyes, Armie sees bits of those  same sun-golden universes trapped there and knows he could get lost in any one of those and never want to find his way back.

Timmy licks his lips and Armie knows they would taste of salt and happiness. The moment hangs suspended until Armie starts to push himself away but Timmy’s hands grip tighter at his shoulder, the other on his waist, refusing to let him go.

“Why do you keep fighting it?” Timmy’s tone is soft and plaintive.

Armie closes his eyes, breaking the spell that held them suspended. He sits up, leaning back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, staring out over the water.

Timmy groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Armie can’t help the twitch of his lip as he can practically feel the frustration rolling off Timmy in waves. He rolls onto his side, planting his elbow in the sand, resting his head in his palm as he looks up at Armie as he keeps his eyes locked on the horizon, the sun starting its slow languid descent into evening.

A muscle twitches in Armie’s thigh as he feels Timmy’s finger trace the wet hem of his underpants. There isn’t much fight left in him so he doesn’t pull away. The touch of Timmy’s finger is like a livewire to his wet skin, the current crackling through his body.

Timmy sits up beside him, their bodies touching all along their side, shoulder to hip to knee. The moment pulls tight until it snaps when Armie feels Timmy’s open mouth press against the skin of his shoulder, followed by the graze from the cutting edge of his teeth as he gently bites.

Armie’s breath stutters in his chest, his fingers gripping fistfuls of loose sand.

“ _Why?_ ” he whispers again, his lips pressed against Armie’s skin. He doesn’t want to believe it’s disappointment he hears in Timmy’s voice as he lays his head against Armie's shoulder. .

Armie knows they are well past considering any of this between them as platonic, but he struggles to answer honestly. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

Suddenly he has a lap full of Timmy as he straddles Armie lap, long legs bracketing Armie’s thighs, hands gripping the sides of Armie’s neck, guiding (forcing) Armie to look at him.

“It’s not taking if i’m giving.”

Overwhlemed by his proximity, Armie closes his eyes, shivers, as thoughts race through his mind. If he gives in now, he knows there is no turning back. But he knows this isn't a new thought. He's found himself wanting this moment since the first night he stumbled into Timmy's world. Has wanted the barrier between them less and less until nothing stood between them. Its simultaneously invigorating and terrifying.

When he opens his eyes he finds everything he never knew he wanted— or needed— reflected in the deep green of Timmy’s gaze, in the open and welcome expectation of his expression, in the smiling, fond curve of the smile on  his lips.

Armie's stomach does that familiar flip, the swooping somersault of fear as he steps to the edge of the cliff, takes a deep breath and jumps with a soft press of his lips against Timmy's.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few things-
> 
> First, so sorry this update took so long. Life just sort of... happened, and my head has not been in the right place to get words down worth sharing. I am terribly unhappy with this chapter in particular. It's turned into another 'treading water' chapter, that really doesn't do much in terms of getting these two where we want them to be ;) BUT, I think, now that words are starting to come back to me, I should manage to get this back on track and get this show on the road. *fingers crossed*
> 
> Second, did I mention I hate this chapter?
> 
> Third, on rereading, I realise I've messed up my own timeline and will be going back to sort that out at some point. This chapter takes place on a Monday. Armie's premiere will be on the following Tuesday.
> 
> Fourthly (?), thanks to anyone still sticking around for updates. You guys keep me going. xoxo

 

Armie’s experienced lots of kisses over the course of his life.

His first had been with Aleja Bodden. She was fifteen while Armie was only thirteen (proof that being tall for his age had its advantages). It was a first kiss straight out of some John Hughes film- on the beach beneath the shade of a coconut tree with the girl from the wrong side of the island. The kiss itself had been nothing to write home about, the only thing he really recalls now of it was the scent of suntan lotion and the metallic clank of her braces against his front teeth. All of which might have improved over time if given a chance, but unfortunately his mother had found out, tanning his hide as a painful reminder he was _not_ to associate with _those kinds of people._

He’s experienced the kiss of “I do”. Sealing the deal on an idea he thought he understood and believed he wanted, only to sadly discover it wasn’t for him at all. Like a suit that didn’t fit, he wore it because it cost a lot of money and everyone told him he would grow into it all the while never considering it could be altered, or that the situation never required a suit to begin with.

There were work related kisses. All choreographed to clinically sterile perfection. Perfectly executed but never anything to even be considered a perk of the job.

His favorite kisses by far have been the ones shared with his children. _‘Good morning’_ and _‘goodnight’_ , scraped knees and bruised elbows. They have singularly represented all that is good in the world. Moments of pure, unadulterated happiness Armie wouldn’t trade for the world.

But _this?_ Kissing Timmy. Armie has _never_ experienced a kiss like this. _Well,_ the night before had been pretty incredible, but it had been tinged with worry and anxiety. Fear. Fear of pushing Timmy too soon. Fear of making a mistake. Armie had held back part of himself with that kiss. For all that it was a transcendental experience, he hadn’t committed to it wholly- mind _and_ body.

But here, now? Armie is all in. There is no voice of his mother reminding him of his obligations and station in life. No rote recitation of scripture to remind him of the perils of sin. There is no wife to reinforce the expectation Armie must maintain a certain _appearance_ fit for public consumption. There are no fans to disappoint.

Kissing Timmy, the feeling that swells within him, defies explanation. It feels momentous, indescribable. It somehow brings to mind, the image of a young bird leaving its nest for the first time. The _trust_ in itself it must have in order to leave the safety of its tree, to fall before knowing it can even _fly_. Spreading its wings before ever understanding  it’s a bird.

That’s how Armie feels, drowning in the feel of Timmy, the weight and solidity of him in his lap. There is no mistaking Timmy is a _man_ even with Armie’s eyes closed. The play of muscles beneath Armie’s hands as Timmy shifts his knees in the sand, the strength in his thighs where they clamp tight against Armie’s own. There is no soft give to the chest pressed against Armie’s. The tiny sounds he makes against Armie’s lips, deep and sonorous, _masculine._ He smells of sea and salt and something altogether foreign while at the same time so familiar, _male._ It all combines to set Armie free, soaring. He isn’t going to hit the ground until he’s ready to land.

His tongue sweeps slowly inside Timmy’s mouth as he winds his arms around Timmy’s thin waist. He’s physically as close as he can be but Armie wants him _closer_. The need to fold himself into Timmy rising with every lick and nip.  Timmy wraps his own arms around Armie’s neck, tight with desperate tension, holding on as if Armie were a life raft, suddenly fearful in the idea the next wave may crash over them and drag him out to sea.

Their skin dries cool to the touch in the breeze, only to quickly burst into heat where they touch, chests pressed together, slowly melting into one another. Timmy hitches higher on his knees, rising above Armie, forcing his head back to meet Timmy’s mouth, a barely there touch that morphs into a sweeping sliding press and retreat and shared breath that makes Armie’s chest ache.

Armie’s hands drift from Timmy’s waist, fingers spread wide, they cover the entire expanse of Timmy’s lean torso, hip to hip. He slides them up Timmy’s back, palms rasping against the sand that remains stuck to  his skin. Timmy moans into his mouth before pulling off with a gasp as Armie’s hands reach underneath the damp tendrils of his hair, scraping against his scalp.

Timmy’s eyes flutter open, blinking blindly as he looks down into Armie’s upturned face. They are more hooded than ever, the green gone nearly black with arousal. Armie doesn’t blink, stares him openly, not hiding,  let’s him look his fill, knowing Timmy sees it all, right down into the heart of him. But in his own eyes, Armie watches something crack within Timmy in response. The corners of his eyes turn down even more, he swallows hard before he has to hide, burying his face in Armie’s neck.

Armie feels Timmy shudder against him, his breathing harsh and erratic against the skin of Armie’s throat. He clings to Armie, an embrace Armie senses is not of passion but the need to seek comfort. Armie shifts, wrapping one arm around his waist, the other cupping the nape of his neck as he holds him tight, willingly giving Timmy what he needs, merely holding, allowing  him work through whatever this is at his own pace, in his own way.

The crashing waves drown whatever noise Timmy makes, but Armie can feel the rumble of sound through the wall of his own chest and can’t help but tighten his grip, hoping the support is enough to ground Timmy.

“You’re okay,” Armie presses the words against Timmy’s hair at his temple. Not a question, but steady reassurance, Timmy’s fingers biting into the skin of his back. “It’s okay,” he whispers once more and Timmy nods.

Armie feels him slowly unwind, loosening his grasp until he finally lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes glistening, the late afternoon sun shimmering at their tips. He sniffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand and Armie’s heart melts.

“Sorry.”

Armie shakes his head as he grasps Timmy’s with both hands, bracketing his chin, fingers wrapped around the back of his skull as his thumbs gently sweep beneath his eyes, wiping the moisture of tears away. He presses a soft, tender kiss to his mouth.

Timmy licks his lips as Armie pulls away.

“What do you need?” Armie’s voice is low, but he knows Timmy hears him above the sound of the surf as a corner of his mouth twitches fondly.

Timmy shakes his head, taking a deep breath that Armie feels stutter as he releases it.

“What do you _want_?”

Timmy rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, the reddened, swollen flesh goes white beneath the pressure. Turning his head, he stares for a moment down the deserted beach, eyes squinting against the glare of the low-hanging sun.

Armie holds his breath, wondering if this is the moment he’s gone too far, pushed Timmy too hard. He’s certain his expectations were spoken too clearly in that kiss, telegraphing his wants and needs. He knows what the stiffness of his own cock trapped between their bodies represents but doesn’t for a moment take for granted, or assume, Timmy’s means the same. Timmy has every right to refuse, or simply, never has to reciprocate.

He’s about to speak up, his fingers edging to pull away from where they rest still cradling Timmy’s head when he finally turns back to meet Armie’s questioning gaze. Timmy twists his neck, tilting his head into Armie’s hand, pressing his lips reverently to Armie’s palm.

His hand wraps around Armie’s wrist, holding him in place. Timmy speaks, his lips pressed to Armie’s palm as he looks over Armie’s shoulder, tender in his inability to now look Armie in the face as he confesses. “I want this.”

It’s a simple statement that knocks the wind out of Armie’s sails because it was the last thing he expected to hear. Timmy turns his head, leaning his cheek against Armie’s palm. His eyes lock on Armie’s and he doesn’t dare blink, fearful of missing a cue or a twitch of brow that could mean Armie has misunderstood.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with this, how-” Timmy swallows, takes a deep breath. “I don’t normally,” he groans, closing his eyes, clearly frustrated with his inability to explain. Armie waits, breathless. “I want this, with you.” His voice is tremulous as he now stares determinedly into Armie’s eyes. “I want _you_.”

Armie understands what Timmy _isn’t_ saying. How hard this must be for him, and unfamiliar- the _want_ , the _need_ \- for  another human after so long of having to give himself in order to merely survive. The revelation of that is a weight on Armie’s chest, a thickness in the back of his throat. His hand flexes against Timmy’s jaw, woefully inadequate to convey how much he wants to contain him and hold him and make everything okay.

He swallows against the dryness in his mouth, his voice no more than a rasp, desperate for Timmy to understand.  “I promise-”

Timmy shakes his head, closing his eyes once more. “No promises. We can’t- we don’t know,” his sigh is weighty. “Can we just focus on now? No past and no future? I just want to _be._ Right here, right now. With you. _”_

The reality of Timmy’s request is like being doused in cold water. Armie understands too well they are playing with stolen time. He has run away from life to have _this moment_. There is no looking back and no going forward. All they have is now.

His heart gives a painful lurch as the truth settles into the pit of his stomach, but nods in acceptance because what is there to say? Armie leans forward to kiss Timmy once more. It’s not a kiss of passion but of resignation and acceptance. A slow sweep and languid exploration that feels like liquid sunlight passed from one to the other.

Armie’s thumb brackets Timmy’s mouth, loving the feel of his jaw moving beneath as he readily opens his mouth, allowing, accepting Armie’s tongue to sweep inside as Timmy sighs in pleasure.

Heat slowly unravels, warmth emanating from the tips of Armie’s fingers, bleeding into Timmy’s skin beneath his hands as the kiss deepens. Timmy shuffles up on his knees attempting to close the distance between them once more. Armie groans as their chests make contact, the pleasure short-lived as Timmy suddenly tips sideways and Armie abruptly finds himself with a lap full of Timmy and wet dog.

Timmy’s laugh is a strange, low hiccuping thing as Archie licks his face, wedging himself between the two of them.

“Someone’s jealous,” he announces, breathless, the smile wide and bright as he grabs Archie’s head in both hands, pressing his face against his snout to kiss him back.

Timmy’s joy is contagious as Armie can’t help but join in the laughter, running a hand down Archie’s back, adoring the interaction between the two of them. It makes something in his heart catch, how easily Archie has grown fond of Timmy, and vice versa. It makes Armie wish to see if that could happen in all aspects of his life… with his friends. His kids.

Armie leans back, his weight resting on his palms in the sand, pleased to watch the interplay between Timmy and Archie. Happy to witness the carefree joy simply petting a dog brings to Timmy. Affection wells within Armie, like the tide rising to sweep the sand smooth and he doesn’t stop himself from reaching out, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind Timmy’s ear.

He looks up at Armie over the top of Archie’s head, his eyes the warm green of a primordial forest that sends all the air rushing from Armie’s lungs and blood singing in his veins, a solid underline to the words he had spoken earlier-

_I want you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now[ a playlist for this fic on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/monikakrasnorada/playlist/5npl6UHxoAF0mR0Gui2h9n?si=vqAPp5MURDGTMShI0SdO0Q). Thank you to everyone that has suggested songs and if anyone has one to add, that they listen to while reading, or hear and makes them think of this fic, I would love to add them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry this update was slow coming. I've not only been in a bit of slump, writing wise, but then I got so sidetracked by my trip to NYC last weekend, and getting to see Armie, that I've been emotionally drained all week.
> 
> This chapter was getting way long, so I've decided to split it here. I know! But I promise, the next chapter is what we have all been waiting for. These boys have a _lot_ of feelings to work through, so I hope you all can be patient just a little while longer. 
> 
> I know I am way behind on responding to all of the amazing comments. I really have no excuse other than they have all overwhelmed me with their sentiment and love for this fic and I just end up a blubbering mess when I try to respond. Please know that I read each and every one and appreciate them all. They really are what keeps me chugging along at this, so please keep them coming. 
> 
> Love you all!!!!

 

Armie’s stomach does a flip as he watches Timmy push through the first glass door, cross the small vestibule in two quick strides, exiting the second door out into the early evening light. From where Armie is parked at the far end of the portico, he can still see the smile on Timmy’s face, peeking from beneath the brim of the low-slung cap and framed by curls left a riotous mess from their earlier ocean dip.

 

“There’s discount tickets for a whale-watching tour in there, in case you’re interested. Lady at the desk told me it’s really not to be missed while in the area.”

 

Armie takes the glossy envelope Timmy hands over as he climbs back into the passenger seat of the truck cab. His delivery of the information is so nonchalant and matter-of-fact, Armie misses the wry twist to his mouth as he slams the door closed. Archie climbs into his lap, nuzzling Timmy’s face while Armie thumbs through the brochure without thinking. He shakes his head, knowing full well whale watching definitely isn’t on the agenda and tosses the brochure onto the dash.

 

For a beat, they sit, silent, staring out the windshield at the dilapidated front entrance of the tiny hotel where Timmy has just secured them a room for the night, before they both burst out into a fit of nervous laughter.

 

Back on the beach, with the heat of the kiss still lingering on his lips and Timmy’s tender admission hovering like a promise between them, Armie stood, holding his hand out to Timmy. His heart beat with a slow, sure thud when there wasn’t a moment’s hesitation on Timmy’s part, eagerly placing his smaller hand in Armie’s, allowing him pull Timmy to his feet.

 

They had kissed once more, closed-mouthed and tender, before reluctantly pulling away, each making half-assed attempts at swiping sand from the other’s skin. Armie eagerly admitted to himself he enjoyed just as much running his hands along Timmy’s pale back as the moment Timmy returned the favor, swiping low over his ass in a touch that felt much more reverential than helpful. Anticipation and assurance combined in one innocent gesture.

 

He adored the curve of Timmy’s lip, the smirk that clued him in that it hadn’t been an accidental touch. Armie bumped his shoulder against Timmy’s in acknowledgement as they slipped uncomfortably back into their clothes, over damp underwear and salt-crusted skin with sand trapped in places it should never be.

 

By unspoken agreement, they returned to the truck to find the nearest hotel with a decent shower. Anything beyond the immediate thought of getting clean and dry, Armie pushed from his mind. _No past and no future_ . Timmy wanted them living in the _now_ and that’s what Armie was forcing himself to do.

 

The first hotel they found with a vacancy sign seemed more suited to something you would expect to find on old Route 66. A sprawling, single story mom-and-pop operation that was probably state-of-the-art in 1950, but ‘retro’ now by default and the sheer fact it hadn’t changed in the last sixty years.

 

To Armie’s relief, Timmy eagerly volunteered to go in and reserve a room. Luckily, Armie had brought the ill-fated cash with him so there was no need to use a credit card, not that he thought anyone was monitoring what he was doing back home (he hoped, but come to think of it, he wouldn’t put it past some people he knew) He just didn’t want to put his name out there for anyone to recognise. So far this day, they had managed to maintain the bubble they were existing in and Armie wanted nothing to suddenly cause it to burst.

 

Timmy was kind enough not to comment, to make Armie feel more guilty than he already does about the fact he is _hiding_ . Timmy. And himself. He wonders if Timmy realises he’s inadvertently given Armie an ‘out’. By asking for them to focus on nothing but the present, he’s allowed Armie to forget there will be a _later_ — a time when he will have to either be willing to face who he is or maintain the status quo. And at this moment, Armie wants to believe he could be brave enough to weather such an uncertain future, but he doesn't kid himself in knowing which fate he would choose if forced.

 

“We’re in 83. She said it was around back, at the end, by the pool.” Timmy’s voice breaks into Armie’s momentary brood. He nods with more confidence than he truly has, shifting into gear and driving in the direction Timmy points.  

 

The back lot is just as empty as the front when Armie pulls into the spot in front of Room 83. His palms are sweaty as he swipes them down his thighs before opening the door. Timmy takes the time to fasten Archie’s leash to his collar before they both hop out while Armie grabs from the backseat the bag he packed along with the stuff they purchased earlier.

 

Archie paws excitedly at the door and stops the moment Armie makes a low noise in his throat. He smiles as Timmy lifts a brow, apparently impressed by Armie’s ability to keep Archie in line, a warm honeyed-thread of desire unspooling between them. Timmy shifts his feet, clearing his throat and Armie is grateful when he turns away, sliding the key into the door.

 

They are hit with a welcome blast of cold air from inside a room much nicer than either expected. It’s a long narrow space, clean and sparsely furnished with a small table and two chairs, a tv as you enter. There is a large king-sized bed that seems to take up the whole room, sitting  next to wall covered with mirrored closet doors.

 

Armie swallows hard and averts his eyes as he drops the bags on the table by the door. Timmy puts his backpack on the bed but doesn’t turn back around to face Armie.

 

“Nice room,” he takes his hat off, places it beside his backpach before he scrubs a hand roughly through his hair at the back of his head.

 

Armie can’t help but smile, calmed and reassured by Timmy’s corresponding nervousness.

 

“It is, yeah.”

 

Timmy nods but doesn’t say anything else. It’s worrisome when he still doesn’t turn to face Armie. Suddenly their surroundings, and the situation becomes clear, the revelation dawning on Armie, hopefully not too late—

 

“Hey,” he takes a small step forward, a need to be closer to Timmy in order to telegraph his sincerity, his voice soft. “This isn’t- you know, this doesn’t have to happen. I don’t want this in any way to feel like… before- for you-”

 

Timmy spins on his heel so quickly Armie doesn’t see him coming before he’s pressed his mouth against Armie’s, halting him from speaking further. The first soft press somehow easing Armie like no words ever could.

 

Timmy’s mouth lingers, a slow sweep, side to side, before he gives a tiny nip to Armie’s bottom lip and takes a step back. Armie’s eyes slide open with a sigh to see Timmy’s shy smile.

 

“It’s already _nothing_ like before,” Timmy confesses and Armie’s chest swells at how breathless he sounds, which of course, he knows he fails at hiding when Timmy shakes his head, and pushes with both hands against Armie’s chest. “Yeah, alright. Don’t get so full of yourself.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Armie teases back and just because he can (and wants to), he leans in with a quick kiss of his own, leaving Timmy blinking adorably up at him. Armie gently eases Archie’s leash from Timmy’s hand. “I’m gonna take him for a walk and pop over to the convenient store across the street to see if they have something I can feed him.”

 

“I could do that, if you want?” Timmy offers, chewing on his bottom lip. “I don’t mind, really.”

 

Armie checks his hip for his wallet out of habit before turning for the door. He understands Timmy’s offer to be his normal wont, needing to somehow _earn_ his way instead of merely accepting generosity.

 

“It’s okay. You can take a shower while I’m gone so I can hop in when I’m back and then we’ll sort something out for dinner? If you’re hungry?”

 

Dinner was a safe topic of conversation.

 

“Dinner? Yeah. Good. That sounds good,” Timmy nods, looking across the room, past the bed which looms in the background like a taunt. “So, I’ll just- take a shower then,” he hitches a thumb over his shoulder and backs away in the general direction of the bathroom.

 

“Great. Need anything while I’m out? A drink or something?”

 

Timmy shakes his head.

 

Armie shuffles his feet, headed for the door. “Back in a few.”

 

“Armie, wait-” he halts, hand paused on the door as he looks over his shoulder as Timmy approaches. “You forgot this.”

 

Timmy places the key card in Armie’s palm, wrapping his fingers around the plastic securely, his thumb sweeping Armie’s knuckles in a languid caress that feels like a promise. “Hurry back,” he barely whispers, leaning up on his toes to kiss Armie’s cheek.

 

The sincerity of Timmy’s request mixed with the familiarity in that gesture, hits Armie squarely in the chest. He finds it hard to breathe, unable to respond so he merely nods and leaves.

 

His entire body trembles as he hears the door click shut behind him and he stumbles a moment, blind, not with panic, but some wild and unnamed feeling that leaves Armie heaving for breath, bent at the waist with his hands planted on his knees. Archie sits at his feet, staring up at him as if he’s lost his mind. Which, maybe he has. He’s trying _not_ to think of what is to come, what any of this means, between the two of them.

 

No past and no future. _Right here, right now._

 

____________________

 

Timmy sits cross-legged in pale blue boxers in the middle of the bed. He’s scrolling through his phone and stops as soon as Armie opens the door, jumping up to help him wrangle Archie and the several bags he’s brought back.

 

Timmy is pink and scrubbed clean, his hair, damp and swept back from his forehead, tucked behind his ears. Armie feels the humidity from the shower a if it lingered in the air just to caress him on his return. He knows it’s a fanciful idea, and that Timmy probable hasn’t thought a thing about it, but Armie can’t help but imagine  the moisture which had washed over Timmy’s skin is now touching Armie’s own, filling his lungs with every breath.

 

The thought of some part of Timmy now taking up residence inside his own body is not a safe topic of thought, so he focuses on sorting out the items he brought back— disposable bowls for Archie’s food and water, a six-pack of beer he thought might not go unappreciated if they ordered pizza for dinner. Anything to keep from staring at Timmy  and his near-nakedness, trying to ignore how very close he stood, fighting the urge to reach out and touch.

 

“I can feed Archie if you want to get in the shower. I know you have to be as miserable as I felt,” Timmy smiles and pushes Armie away from the table with a hip-check.

 

Armie stares at him a moment, watching as he puts the beer in the mini-fridge, opens the food and pours Archie a good sized serving as he sits patiently at Timmy’s feet, tongue-lolling, tail-wagging, knowing it is all for him. It is ridiculous, the warm, fuzzy feeling being ignited in Armie’s gut by simply watching Timmy perform such mundane tasks. It is all so very domestic and all-too appealing.

 

Armie can’t remember the last time someone _cared_ if he were uncomfortable or not, or the last time someone stepped in to take care of things that were obviously his responsibility and didn’t seem bothered or put out by it.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Yep,” his lips purse provocatively over the plosive ‘p’ at the end as he smiles up at Armie, wide and open. “I got this.”

 

Armie doesn’t second guess Timmy’s generosity. He gathers his bag and heads to the bathroom, grateful to shut the door between them and let out the breath he’s been holding since he returned.

 

He stares at himself in the mirror for too long, trying to understand what he is seeing; _who_ it is, staring back at him. He isn’t Armie ‘the husband’, setting himself on fire to keep someone else warm. He isn’t Armie ‘the father’, trying to set the right example or be the protector from all the world’s troubles. He’s not even Armie ‘the actor’ because this is all _too real_ , no script to tell him how this is supposed to play out, no thought for a second-take if he gets it wrong the first time.

 

Lifting a hand, he turns his head to the side, fingers rasping against the two-days worth of beard stubble darkening his jawline before stopping at his mouth. He leans forward, staring himself in the eye, the lines and tiny creases having become more prominent in the very recent past. Time slipping through his fingers like the sand on that beach earlier today. He looks at his mouth, the shape of it the same as it ever was but now haunted by the feel of Timmy’s against it, a tattoo, permanent. It’s unnerving, how novel all of this is. It’s just _sex_ , right? Two bodies finding mutual satisfaction together. Armie’s done it countless times, with many different people, but he can’t recall it ever affecting him quite so much, the anticipation, the urgent fucking _need._

 

Not even his first time, at the age of seventeen, fumbling in the backseat of his first car, they’d done it and Armie had merely felt relieved to have gotten it over with. Even when he’d first fallen in love with Liz, convinced she was _the one_ , sex had been enjoyable, but had come with stipulations and limitations to Armie’s natural proclivities that, while it scratched the itch, it never fed the fire of his desire at its core. It merely became perfunctory and a horrible symptom of the cancer of unacceptance and misunderstanding that eventually killed the love between them.

 

Armie blinks slowly, taking in the whole of his face before reaching behind his neck, pulling his shirt over his head. He stares at the image in front of him: _this_ is what he looks like knowing another man waits for him in the next room. Not a friend or a pal, but a potential _lover_.

 

For the first time in his life, all he sees staring back in the mirror is _himself._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life, blah blah blah. I'm sorry. For those of you still hanging on for this fic, all my love and thanks and appreciation.

The room is dark when Armie finally emerges from the bathroom, the only light coming from the muted television Timmy _isn’t_ watching. The flickering glow paints him in perfect chiaroscuro, softly illuminating the peaks and valleys of his exposed pale flank, chest and arms, legs that extend beneath the hem of his boxer shorts, bent gently at the knee. He lies on his side, facing the bathroom with a contented Archie snug in the semi-circle of his curled body. Seeing him there sparks a flash of irrational jealousy on Armie’s part.  Timmy stroke’s Archie’s fur with one hand while scrolling his phone with the other making Armie he could trade places with his dog.

He takes advantage of remaining unnoticed, standing in the shadow of the darkened bathroom doorway and looks his fill. There is something about seeing Timmy so comfortable, relaxed, _contented_. It reminds Armie of the first night he saw him, standing in that halo of streetlight. He hadn’t known Armie was looking at him then either and Armie is struck just as dumb now by the beauty and intrigue of him as he was then.

Alongside the nerves, Armie’s stomach fills with unexpected contentment, an effervescent airiness of satisfaction that manifests in a broad warm smile splitting his face. He fights feeling smug about being the person that’s managed to supply this moment of peace for Timmy but only for about two seconds before he gives into it.  Whatever may or may not happen next between them doesn’t factor into it at all anymore. Making Timmy happy is all he wants to do.

The thought doesn’t come as a surprise to him so much as it settles around him like a blanket, warm and comforting. But it also doesn’t come without a price. He’s terrified to imagine what a future with Timmy could look like, the sacrifices that would have to be made in order for that to be possible, but he’s also too scared to picture it without him, uncertain he can ever go back to the half-life he was living before.

He swallows against the cresting wave of sentiment which threatens to drown him, knowing it does him no good to think too much, to _hope_ too much at this point.

_No past and no future._

He shoves a hand through his damp hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. Timmy looks up the same instant the movement catches Archie’s attention.

“Hey,” he says from the bed, his voice low, his smile timid and a little shy. He props himself up on one hand as his phone falls to the mattress in front of him, forgotten. “Feel better?”

“Like a new man.”

Armie smiles. He knows Timmy’s question is a nervous attempt at chit chat, referring only to finally washing away the sand and travel grime, but his answer is as honest as he’s ever been in his life.

He meets Timmy’s gaze, steady and unwavering, unable to look away, unable to hide anything from showing on his face. In the glimmering light of the tv, Armie sees color rise on the crest of each of Timmy’s high sharp cheekbones. Timmy looks away first, dropping his head with an endearing shake, hiding a smile behind the dark velvet curtain of his curls.

It’s a nothing moment that leaves Armie’s heart hammering in his chest.

Timmy’s nervousness is contagious and Armie’s suddenly so overcome he has to take a deep breath to center himself. He needs a moment and so gathers up the bowls Timmy had placed in the floor for Archie, removing them to the bathroom where he’s also left a dry towel folded as a makeshift bed. Armie feels like the worst sort of irresponsible pet owner after leaving the house without a thought for Archie’s care, but feels no one could really blame him with someone like Timmy distracting him every minute of the day.

Archie bounds off the bed without hesitation when Armie pats his thigh to call him over.

“Good boy,” he croons, scratching him fondly beneath the chin, bending down to kiss his muzzle. “We’ll go for another walk in a bit, hm?” He softly reassures him. Archie sniffs the towel, circling twice before making himself comfortable. Armie switches on the tiny night light plugged into the outlet next to the basin and closes the door behind him.

Stepping back into the room, he finds Timmy once again sitting in the middle of the bed, forearms hanging over his criss-crossed knees. Anyone looking at him would think he’s calm and relaxed, but Armie can read the stiffness of his spine, the tense set to his shoulders, nothing like the insouciant slouch of his normal posture. The tell-tale signs of nervousness fosters ever more tender feelings in Armie.

“So, um-,” he steps closer to the bed, into the halo of light projected from the television. “Do we want to order some dinner? Or we could go somewhere?”

Timmy looks up at him, eyes round, shining in the low light. “It doesn’t matter to me. Are you hungry?”

_Starving,_ Armie stifles the reply, shrugging as he offers a shaky laugh.

“I can always eat, but I’m good to wait. If you’d rather.” This is painful.

Timmy continues to stare up at him and it's like being pinned beneath glass. He couldn't feel more exposed if he were standing there naked.

He'd followed Timmy’s lead after showering. He wasn't twenty, but he knew the control he had over certain parts of his body was tenuous at best, so, in hopes of thwarting an embarrassing incident, he’d opted for running shorts over the tight and unforgiving boxer briefs he’d brought with him. He _knew_ those alone would do _nothing_ to hide what was on his mind, not that adding shorts would help much either… _considering._ He envied Timmy’s apparent lack of worry (and loose-fitting cotton boxers).

While he was happy to live with this false sense of security, he wishes he’d at least put on a shirt, too.  

Under Timmy's continued scrutiny, he fights the urge to cross his arms over his chest, as if that would help make him feel less naked, less exposed. Armie’s not a fool and knows it's ridiculous to feel embarrassed in front of Timmy after they'd spent the afternoon similarly dressed _and_ soaking wet. It’s just hard to ignore the implication of what being partially naked means now with the whole night ahead of them _._

Timmy nods, his tongue held between his teeth. Armie’s seen him do it countless times since knowing him. It’s clearly a subconscious gesture. He isn’t being coy. It isn’t meant as flirtation, but seeing that peek of soft, pink flesh held between the edge of his straight white teeth has never been more a siren call than now. A summons, drawing Armie inexorably closer to the bed as Timmy simultaneously moves to sit on his knees, hands resting on his thighs.

The moment swells into something bigger than time should be able to contain as Armie stares down into Timmy’s upturned face. Once again, Armie feels he's at the edge of a cliff, staring down into the vast unknown. He knows, deep in the marrow of his bones, that this is the point of no return. Behind him is the life he's led to this point, fitting everyone's idea of who and what he should be. Below him, hidden in the mist, is the man he wants to be but knows his survival isn’t guaranteed. All he has to do is lean into it and allow himself to fall but he can’t this time. He’s going to need a push.

Before Armie’s finished the thought, Timmy’s hand moves between them, coming to rest with his palm flat against the center of Armie’s chest.

Of course, somehow Timmy knows this, just as he’s known so much about what Armie needs or wants all along, surprising him at every turn. Somehow, in the short time they've spent together, Timmy _knows_ Armie like no one else ever has.

“We can eat… later?” It’s a gentle suggestion, framed as a question that isn’t about food.

Armie understands the clear meaning of ‘later’ is now _after._

Armie nods in agreement as the warmth of Timmy’s palm seeps into his skin, grounding him. He watches Timmy stare in fascination at it resting there, his fingers flexing, scratching against the hair on Armie’s chest. It’s a shock to Armie’s system, just how good that simple touch feels. But, Armie is greedy, hungry and needs more, a complete circuit of their connection. He brings his own hand forward,  brushing one rogue curl from Timmy’s forehead, sweeping it behind his ear. Timmy immediately leans into the touch as Armie cradles his skull in his palm, eyes closing with a contented sigh.

Armie has to look away, the moment tender in a way that unsettles him. _Too soon_ . His fear of falling now something altogether different. His heart thuds in his chest but comes to a sudden halt when he notices what rests on the bedside table- a small box of condoms and a  _travel-sized_ bottle of lube? He didn’t even know they _made_ travel sized bottles of lube?

The abrupt dose of reality must telegraph into his hold on Timmy because he tenses, immediately looks up, following Armie’s line of sight. Timmy’s fingers twitch against Armie’s chest.

“Don’t freak out,” Timmy’s voice is soft, the sort of tone someone would use when they’ve stumbled across a wild animal and they hope to keep it from either attacking or running away.

He isn’t aware when he’d actually stopped breathing but his lungs burn as he gasps for breath. He blinks, pulling his eyes away from the table, brow pinched as he looks at Timmy, hands on his hips.

“I’m not freaking out,” his response comes too quickly to stop, uncertain why he’s being so defensive.

Timmy nods and does something with his mouth as he hums, stroking the center of his chest in soothing circles, the rasp of his chest hair against Timmy’s palm over-loud in the room.

“Good. Okay, there’s no need to be. I’m glad.”

Something about his placating and sideways condescension pushes all the wrong buttons for Armie, his mind conjuring the sort of thoughts Armie knows it aren’t fair to Timmy. He’s tried so hard to put out of his mind what Timmy does, _has done_ , and he loathes the questions that now swirl in his head, but he has to know-

“Are those- have you had those with you… all along?”

Something flashes in Timmy’s eyes, flinty and razor-edged. Armie hates it but hates himself more for having inspired them.

“If you’re asking-,” Timmy cuts himself off with a tight shake of his head. “Honestly. Where could I have possibly hidden those this whole time I’ve been at your house, _Armie_? My backpack was stolen, remember? What? You think I’ve had them stashed up my ass or something, just in case you deigned to finally fuck me? Jesus.”

He sighs in exasperation, forcing Armie away from him with a shove so full of frustration Armie swears he can feel him vibrate with it. "You  _told_ me to get what you thought I might  _need_ when we stopped earlier, remember? After-" he swallows, and Armie knows he's a fucking asshole for being so mesmerised by the motion. "After that- whatever it was moment. It felt like- like maybe you  _wanted-"_  He sits back on his heels, his hand now balled into a tight fist at his side. He stares down at the bed beneath him. “I should have _known_. This was a fucking mistake-” he berates himself under his breath.

Armie remembers that moment, the flash of heat and want that had been so overwhelming he'd had to walk away.

“Shit,” Armie groans. He scrubs a hand across his face, wishing he could peel the skin from his skull in penance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t- I didn’t mean. _Fuck._ I don’t know what I meant. I don’t know _what I’m doing._ ”

He can’t bear to look at Timmy and doubles over, planting his hands on his knees, trying to catch the breath that is locked out of his chest.

This isn’t just about Timmy’s sudden disappointment or misunderstanding, but all the unanswered questions Armie can’t deal with. He _knows_ this is what he wants, that he aches to be with Timmy, wants him like he’s never wanted anyone or anything in his life, but _how_ does this work? What does it mean? _Will_ it mean anything more than mutual orgasms? How does he make this okay for Timmy? How can he stop this from making Timmy feel like Armie’s merely another in a long line of assholes willing to take advantage of him?

The silence between them is heavy, the distance between them a chasm that neither knows how to cross.

“Shit. It’s okay, Armie,” Timmy whispers, his tone filled with all the agony Armie feels. Armie shudders when he feels Timmy’s hands on his shoulders. “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

Hearing Timmy apologise breaks something inside Armie. He isn’t apologising for the words he’s just said but for the reason Armie has questions. For his past. Armie _doesn’t_ hold that against Timmy, at all, but he has no idea how to make him believe that-

Unless he shows him.

So with that revelation,  it’s as if someone’s dropped Armie’s reins. He's tired of thinking about it all. Worrying about it.

He surges forward, reaching for Timmy, wrapping his arms around his middle. The momentum is enough to bring Timmy up onto his knees, his arms locked tight around Armie’s neck.

They hold onto one another as if letting go would mean they would drown and maybe they will. Without each other now, how can either of them survive?

Armie marvels at the feel of their chests pressed together, the heat of Timmy’s skin. His palms nearly encompass the entirety of his thin-framed torso and the feel of Timmy’s muscles moving beneath his skin makes him dizzy. There is a subtle tremor Armie can feel, Timmy’s entire being trembling, where it’s pressed against his own.

The reality of their situation comes as Timmy huffs an embarrassed laugh against Armie’s throat. “God, I’m nervous.”

It thrills Armie to hear (feel) the confession breathed against his skin, shy but honest. Timmy practically hangs off Armie’s neck, as if all the strength he's been using to hold himself back is now gone, his body limp and pliant, forcing Armie to grip him tighter, hold him closer. Timmy rubs his face against the rough stubble beneath Armie’s chin.

“Makes two of us,” he whispers against the top of Timmy’s head. “I have no clue how this is supposed to go.”  Armie glides his hands up and down the smooth expanse of Timmy’s back causing his thin frame to undulate beneath Armie’s hands, a wave rolling, needy, to follow in the wake of Armie’s touch. Armie shifts his head and noses at the hair behind Timmy’s ear.

A selfish part of Armie had hoped the ‘bold’ Timmy would take control, even though he knows that would be the worst thing to happen. Armie understands what is at stake with Timmy, _for_ Timmy, what it has cost him to get to the point they are now, and that Timmy deserves to be present as _himself_ and not the persona he’s cultivated in order to survive. Armie is not willing to break that precious bond of trust.

So, it isn’t even a conscious decision Armie makes now the torch has been lit.  Although it’s obvious Timmy is much more capable and _knowledgeable_ in the actual act, he’s essentially a virgin in the emotion of it all. As frightening as crossing this physical boundary is for Armie, he can’t imagine the uncertainty Timmy must be dealing with and vows the one thing he knows he can do that might help ease things for him and that is giving Timmy the control of consent.

He wants this to be good for Timmy. He wants him to be okay.

“Can I kiss you?” Armie breathes, his lips brushing against his ear, desperation carving every word, hoping permission is granted.

Timmy opens his mouth against Armie’s shoulder, the slightest bite of teeth pressing into his skin before he leans away, looking up into Armie’s face. His eyes, hooded and dark.

“Yes, please,” he answers, breathless. This close, Timmy’s eyes are the bottomless cavern at the edge of Armie’s cliff. His mouth goes dry, his heart thumping out of his chest as Armie realises he already has one foot over the edge.

Nothing can stop Armie from falling now. It should be terrifying but Armie knows it was inevitable now. From the moment this strange lonely kid showed up in his life, he didn't have a prayer and falling can be just like flying.

It can set you free.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When old fandoms sneak into new fandom works. Sometimes it just works. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... here we gooooo. And, remember, I did warn for angst. <3

_"Can I kiss you?"_

_"Yes, please."_

 

 Timmy’s hands eventually drift from Armie’s neck, sliding up until his fists are full of hair at Armie’s nape.

Timmy sways in Armie’s arms, trembling, eyes focussed on Armie’s mouth.  Armie’s hands knead softly at the muscles in Timmy’s flexing back, relishing the building anticipation he can feel in the tension of Timmy’s body. He huffs a quiet knowing chuckle, only to have it cut short when Timmy’s tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip in anticipation and clear invitation.

His desire for Armie to take what he has requested is transparent, fueling Armie’s enjoyment in this momentary cat-and-mouse game, making him want to hesitate, draw it out as long as possible and just enjoy the tease.

He hovers for a moment, lips so close they breathe the same air, before leaning away with a smug quirk on his lips, forcing a tiny whine from the back of Timmy’s throat. The sound does funny things to Armie’s stomach but he doesn’t give in, not yet. His eyes dart all over Timmy’s face, the growing frustration he sees in the crease between Timmy’s brow is it's own kind of reward, and he draws closer once more with promise.

Timmy’s lips part, expectant as a baby bird waiting to be fed, only to quickly curve into a beguiling pout when Armie changes paths at the very moment their lips are about to touch, ducking beneath his chin to nose at his throat. Timmy groans and Armie feels the vibration of it with his mouth through the column of Timmy’s throat. His hands tighten their grip on Armie’s hair, pulling, trying to guide Armie where he wants him, mouth to mouth.

Armie does nothing to suppress another low rumble of laughter that escapes his chest because Timmy’s annoyance is precious.

But he’s well aware it isn’t _only_ Timmy he’s denying and when Timmy whispers, “ _Please,_ ” it’s enough to push Armie into finally giving in.

When he presses a kiss to Timmy’s lips it’s met with a sigh that fans across Armie’s face like a caress. Timmy’s mouth yields immediately to the pressure Armie applies, allowing his tongue sweet access to Timmy’s mouth, where he meets it with languid, sensual movements Armie feels to the tips of his toes.

Timmy’s body once more melts against Armie’s, pliant and willing, molding perfectly beneath his hands. Armie fights a losing battle, attempting to keep the kiss slow, wanting to savor each press of lip and swipe of tongue, but Timmy has different ideas. Taking Armie by surprise and catching him completely off-guard, he tightens his grip around Armie’s neck, and falls back, dragging Armie forward, forcing him to scramble to follow Timmy onto the bed.

Armie is overwhelmed to suddenly have a near-naked Timmy spread beneath him, trapped in the cage of Armie’s body. He can’t help but focus on their size difference, the stark contrast of Timmy’s lean, trim hips easily held between Armie’s thighs, his narrow shoulders fitting between his comfortably spread hands.

Armie stares down into his face as Timmy looks up, owl-eyed, lips parted, kiss-swollen and wet. His chest rises and falls, quick breaths in and out. He already looks debauched from only a few minutes’ kissing and the thought makes Armie’s blood run hot.

Licking his lips, Armie clears his throat before he can manage to make words happen, filled with the sudden need to check in.

“Is this okay?”

Timmy blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow before he offers a tight shake of his head. “No.”

It’s as if Armie’s plunged head-first into a bucket of ice water, gutted he’s now inadvertently tread a boundary Timmy never wanted crossed.

“Shit. Sorry, I’m sorry,” he scrambles to move away, but Timmy’s hands only grip at his hair tighter, his fingers digging into his nape to hold him where he is.

“No. I only meant,” he wraps a leg around Armie’s calf, tugging with an undeniable invitation for Armie to move in closer. “You’re too far away.”

His smile is crooked before he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes glittering. He ends up being very persuasive (and much stronger than he looks). All Armie can do is give in, all but collapsing on top of him, with relief, with need.

The moment he finds himself pressed against Timmy, sternum to thigh, it’s too much. His mind can’t process how good it feels. How _right_. For all of Timmy’s feminine beauty— his dark, silken hair, his creamy complexion, his petal-pink full lips— Armie has never entertained the thought of him as anything other than _male_. It should be surprising that Armie hasn’t felt the need to _imagine_ him as anything other than a man in order to imagine being with him. He hasn’t had to lie to himself because he needed to convince himself he wasn’t gay.

Because it truly doesn’t matter to Armie. He wants _Timmy._

So now, to experience a completely _male_ form beneath him is both novel and exhilarating. It’s _so fucking good._ He isn’t missing the pillow softness of breasts against his chest, he doesn’t require (desire?) the damp heat of a woman to cradle him but craves to eventually feel a mirroring hardness pressed against his thigh.

Timmy moans, deep and sonorous, his body rolling in a sensual wave beneath Armie, each point of contact of skin against skin like a tiny licking flame.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Armie breathes, manages to swallow. “Yeah, close- closer is better.”

He’s barely got the words out before Timmy’s mouth is on his again and it’s too much and altogether not enough at the same time. Armie is breathless, his chest heaving. He shifts, can’t stop himself from thrusting against Timmy’s thigh, needing the relief of that pressure. He hadn’t realised he was so hard, or when it had happened. He can feel a  damp spot has already formed on the front of his jogging shorts as he moves. He takes entirely too much pleasure from the thought that he is leaving smears of himself behind on Timmy’s skin.

There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind, reminding him how insane it is to be so worked up over _just_ kissing. But this, kissing Timmy- there is something about the velveteen stubble of Timmy’s upper lip, rubbing against his mouth that is intoxicating. He wants to know what that gentle, barely-there rasp would feel like against the back of his knees, the ball of his foot, the smooth, sensitive skin of his inner arm.

He’s lost in those thoughts until Timmy’s hands move from his hair,  trailing down the valley of his spine before teasing at the waistband of his shorts, one long finger dipping beneath, resting not-so-innocently at the crest of the divot of his ass.

It shocks a moan from his lips, his back arches into the touch and Timmy offers a dark laugh in return.

“Mm, you like that?” his finger prods further, slipping deeper into the valley between Armie’s ass cheeks. “Has anyone ever had you _there_?” The question smeared across Armie’s mouth.

There’s a coarseness to the question that part of Armie’s brain wants to linger on but it’s quickly shoved to the back of his mind by the molten _want_ it sparks low in his gut. He can feel Timmy’s wide, knowing smile against his neck when Armie freezes as his finger dips lower.

It’s barely an insinuation, a tease. He returns to kissing Armie, his finger remaining still like a promise. He doesn’t press any further, or  attempt to touch him _there_ , but it’s a shock to Armie when he realises he _wants_ him to. It’s not ever something Armie’s allowed himself to entertain, or thought he might want, but in this moment? _Yes, please._

His eyes squeeze shut and he shakes his head ‘no’ in answer to Timmy’s question. Armie abandons Timmy’s mouth, desperate for air, before scraping his lips across his chin and cheek to bite at the hinge of his jaw. Timmy arches his neck with a gasp, allowing Armie to make quick work of exploring every creamy inch exposed, connecting the dots of freckles with his tongue, a patchwork of symbols only he can decipher.  

Armie rolls his hips, hoping to silently telegraph his desire for Timmy to keep going, to do as he pleases, anything he wants Armie will gladly, happily _readily_ give. The movement causes Armie’s knee to shift, bringing it flush against Timmy’s crotch which sets him off like a flame to dry kindling.

There’s a sudden violent burst of  movement, a flurry of limbs and uncoordinated man-handling that has Armie’s back hitting the bed before he has time to react. Breathless, he stares up at the ceiling,  pretty sure he just lost a wrestling match he had no idea he was involved in. His sex-fog brain rushes to process but grinds to a screeching halt as Timmy straddles his thighs, crouching over him in victory.

Armie’s eyes are drawn to Timmy’s face but he can’t decipher anything as it’s hidden in the shadow of his hair and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because Timmy is kissing him again, all sloppy wet tongue and biting teeth. Armie lacks resistance, gives in too easily as his hands move to Timmy’s waist, slide down his hips, gripping so tightly he knows there will be bruises later. Timmy is writhing like a snake in his lap and Armie is terrified it’s all going to be over too soon, neither of them capable of any sort of control.

Armie’s grip on his thighs tighten, trying to gain some leverage to pull even more weight from Timmy’s body onto his lap before Timmy pulls away, sliding further down the bed. His mouth leaves a trail down the center of Armie’s chest, hot breath fanning across Armie’s skin before his tongue flicks out, tracing a broad stripe from sternum to navel. Armie gladly succumbs to Timmy’s exploration with a groan until Timmy breaks his hold, shoving Armie’s arms up and away.  

“Play nice,” he growls, his mouth finding its way to where his neck meets his shoulder, teeth sinking in hard enough to make Armie wince, sucking air in between his teeth with a hiss.

But, he immediately does as told, his body going pliant beneath Timmy’s.

It’s doing funny things to his head, being held down now by the full weight of Timmy’s much smaller body across his thighs, his hands leaning in on Armie’s biceps, essentially pinning his arms to the bed as if he were helpless.

Dominance and submission have always been something Armie had more than a sideways interest in. He’d explored the dynamic often before getting married, well as much as an inexperienced twenty year old could. He’d only barely begun to understand what it could all mean, how it could work, how much he got off on it,  when he met Liz, and she was having _none_ of it. So, he’d buried that part of himself to appease her, believing he was doing the right thing by respecting her feelings, all the while, never realising the resentment it fostered having to deny his own.

Armie isn’t dumb, he knows there have been instances between he and Timmy all along, touches that flirted with control, always surprising him when Timmy instantly acquiesced, when he somehow _knew_ before Armie did that there could be this component added to the desire that bloomed between them.

But this- being pinned and held down? This is the first time he’s considered being on the receiving end of it all and it’s fucking _doing it_ for him in spades.

He thinks he maybe should be unsettled by the idea, but he can’t find it within himself to complain or question any of it when he lifts his head, sees the strain of Timmy’s muscles in his arms, holding himself up, and the crown of Timmy’s dark silken hair hovering above his stomach.

He thinks of Timmy touching his ass, asking if anyone’s ever fucked him and it feels like his body is melting into the bed beneath him, warm putty for Timmy to use and mold as he sees fit.

Armie doesn’t (can’t) stifle the moan that grinds in the back of his throat, his hands now fisting in the sheets until his knuckles turn white.

“ _Yesss,_ wanna hear you make that sound again,” Timmy’s voice is gravel-edged as his teeth sink into the skin just below Armie’s navel. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good.”

He’s at a loss for how to respond, but it doesn’t seem Timmy cares or needs to hear anything from Armie. His eyes glance up and away too quickly for Armie to catch them before his fingers grasp the elastic band of his shorts and start easing them down. It’s apparent he isn’t willing to wait for Armie’s help, man-handling them down his thighs along with the briefs underneath. It’s an awkward moment, shimmying to remove them, definitely not sexy but it doesn’t put Timmy off.

He hums in approval once Armie lies there naked. “Knew you’d have a fucking gorgeous cock.”

Armie feels the heat bloom across his face in a rush. Inexplicably shy all of a sudden and a little uneasy with Timmy’s words. He isn’t a prude by any means, but he’s never been or known anyone to speak so frankly during sex.

Timmy licks his lips before leaning over Armie once more, kissing him hard, leaving him breathless. The loose hem of Timmy’s boxer shorts skims his thighs, brushes against his cock and Armie moans with a thrust, needing more friction, more pressure. Timmy pulls back in answer, leaving Armie with nothing but the air between them.

He laughs darkly at Armie’s frustration, pulling Armie’s bottom lip into his mouth, working it between his teeth. When he finally lets go, Armie is too preoccupied with the pain to comprehend what’s happening.

It seems Timmy grabs the lube and condoms, dropping them onto the bed at Armie’s hip in almost the same motion that finds him lying between Armie’s splayed thighs. He peppers each with kisses, smoothing his lips back and forth as his breath tickles the thick hair that covers them. The sight of his dark head between Armie’s thighs makes his cock give an involuntary jerk.

Timmy’s laugh is low and sultry, his mouth twisted as he runs his nose along the shaft of Armie’s length. Armie shudders, can’t breathe.

“You like this? Seeing me here, between your legs?” he licks the crease of Armie’s groin and Armie’s head hits the mattress with a thump. “Has anyone ever managed to take you all the way, Armie? Have you ever felt what it’s like to be all the way down someone’s throat with this cock of yours?”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what is about to happen.

There are no words of response, he’s strangled by his own need, the images Timmy’s supplying him leaving him gasping. Armie isn’t certain what he’s experienced could ever really be called a ‘blow job’. Liz had attempted it when they were first together but it soon became apparent it wasn’t something she enjoyed, so it often ended up being a barely-there attempt to hold the head of his cock in her mouth while she gave him a handie.

Of course, Armie fantasized for _more_ , for someone (faceless, genderless?) who could accommodate his size, or at the very least, wanted to try. He knew it was asking a lot of any of the partners he had in the past and so just relegated it to the realm of fantasy.

Was Timmy saying he _could_ manage? His mind actually whites out a moment just thinking about it.

Armie sucks in a breath the moment Timmy wraps his fist around him. His fingers don’t meet and Armie is strangely embarrassed by this fact.

From the moment they met, Armie has been intrigued by Timmy’s hands and fingers. He’s uncertain how many times he’s caught himself staring at them over the course of time he’s known him. Long, thin fingers, pale and spidery. An artist’s hands, a musician’s. Armie can so easily imagine them against the keys of a piano, along the fret of a guitar. He hates to admit he ever imagined them in this way.

Timmy squeezes, making a tighter fist, slowly stroking up and down and it’s fucking _embarrassing_ to Armie just how good it feels. He makes some sort of noise that sounds too much like a whine when he feels the warmth of Timmy’s breath against the head of his cock.

“Look at me, Armie,” Timmy’s command is dark and Armie is unable to resist.

Armie props himself on his elbows. His entire body vibrates when he looks down the length of his body to see Timmy staring back at him where he lies spread between Armie’s legs, his feet hanging off the end of the bed. There is a shadow of something indefinable in his eyes Armie can’t decipher. He swallows with unease.

“I want you to watch me,” his tongue darts out, licking at the head of Armie’s weeping cock as if it were a lollipop. Armie hisses sharply between his teeth and Timmy’s mouth twists almost cruelly.

It’s obscene. It’s fascinating. Armie can’t look away. His cock looks monstrous next to Timmy’s delicate features, grotesque to think he would defile his beautiful mouth. That Timmy would want or allow him to.

His cherry-red lips part and Armie can’t breathe, can’t speak. It feels as if the entire world stops spinning as Timmy takes him into his mouth until Armie is pressed against the back of his throat.  Armie reels in the pause it takes Timmy to suck a breath in through his nose.

“ _Jesus, fuck_ ,” he should be embarrassed by how close to tears he sounds.

Timmy pulls off and Armie heaves a breath, simultaneously missing the sensation and relieved to have a moment to collect himself before his head fucking explodes (and he isn’t sure which one he’s actually talking about right now).

“That felt so fucking good. My god,” Armie weakly drops back to the bed as Timmy continues mouthing at the head of his cock, dipping his tongue teasingly into the slit. The sounds Timmy makes are indecent, as much of a turn on as anything he’s doing.

It feels like Armie’s lungs are on fire, he honestly can’t remember _ever_ being this turned on from sex before. As if he’s being wrung inside out. He doesn’t manage to catch a breath though because Timmy reaches for his hand, maneuvering until Armie is palming the back of his head.

He performs another slow bob, his own hand pressing down on Armie’s, insistent.

“So fucking beautiful,” Armie can’t help but say it outloud, his heart feels as if it’s going to burst out of his chest.

Timmy pulls off just enough to speak, his voice a dull rasp. “Make me,” he pushes again against Armie’s hand, forcing his own head down in a not-so-subtle gesture. “Make me take it. Fuck my throat.”

  
  
  



	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied... it's going to be four chapters of angst porn. I'm so sorry. These two have some _issues_ and I am merely the messenger. :(
> 
> And, yes, I use the word desperate entirely too much.
> 
> ETA: I should probably have posted some sort of trigger warning. This is not happy first times. This is two broken people trying their best. Please read with caution and know I am available for discussion or hand holding. Whatever anyone may need. Please take care. All my love.

 

_Timmy pulls off just enough to speak, his voice a dull rasp. “Make me,” he pushes again against Armie’s hand, forcing his own head down in a not-so-subtle gesture. “Make me take it. Fuck my throat.”_

 

There’s an edge of manic desperation in the words before he takes Armie into his mouth once more, this time with no pause. Armie’s struck dumb by the mind-blowing experience of no gag reflex, immobilised by the sensation as Timmy swallows around his cock, pulling him deep into his throat. Armie’s body doesn’t know how to respond, literally caught between the agony of Timmy’s words and the ecstasy of his actions.

Armie’s chest feels; hollow, filled with ice, while the rest of him burns red hot, ready to burst.

His hand is caught between Timmy’s skull and palm, the insistent pressure bordering on painful. Armie _knows_ this isn’t what he wants. It was why he fought against what he’d known he’d been feeling for Timmy all along. He never wanted to _force_ Timmy to do this.

Sloppy, lips clinging to the head of Armie’s cock, heaving breaths chilling his spit-slick skin. “I hate how fucking good you taste. All this time,” his teeth getting in on the action and Armie’s hips jerk of their own volition, unclear on whether he’s trying to run away or get closer. _Both. Right now._ “All this time I could have had you, your fucking _scruples_ .” He growls and Armie feels his frustration in the way he tightens his grip on the base of his shaft. “All this time I’ve been wanting to choke on you. Have you fucking _wreck_ me. So _do it,_ Armie. Take it. Take me. I want you to _destroy me_.”

His words set off alarm bells in the far corner of Armie’s mind while Timmy is increasingly persistent as his mouth goes back to furious work. It’s a furnace, the suction and pressure, intoxicating. Armie’s incapable of processing what’s happening but knows he has to resist the insinuation of what Timmy wants from him. He comprehends what Timmy is saying on a very basic- and base- level, but the words are all wrong in Armie’s head, unable to make sense of them in the maelstrom created by Timmy’s well-practiced abilities.

Armie isn’t immune to the pleasure of the darker desires he’s struggled to suppress for the majority of his adult life and Timmy’s words are incendiary, flipping back the lid on a Pandora’s box Armie had never hoped to open. Now that it has, he’s lost to the moment, acting, and _re_ acting only on instinct but somehow still managing to hold his own reins.

Timmy growls in frustration when Armie pulls his hand free.

Armie knows it’s a bit not good when his fingers drift from Timmy’s nape, coming to rest against Timmy’s extended neck as he moans, stretching impossibly further into Armie’s touch. The sound vibrates against Armie’s palm where it rests, too large, spanning the column of Timmy’s delicately slender throat. Armie feels his cock pulse against the flat of Timmy’s tongue, watches as his eyelids flutter closed. He’s momentarily paralysed by the blissed out look on Timmy’s face, the wide ‘O’ of his mouth where it stretches to accommodate Armie’s girth. He can feel the gust of each breath heaved through Timmy’s nose, hot and humid against his pelvis. Saliva oozes past his balls, into the crack of his ass, soaking the bed beneath him.

Propped on one elbow, Armie swallows thickly at the sight of Timmy, crowded underneath his thighs. From this vantage point he can see Timmy’s hips in constant motion, thrusting against the mattress. The idea that he is imagining himself fucking into Armie makes his toes curl.

The image forces a throaty moan from Armie’s chest. He watches his thumb gently caress Timmy’s Adam’s apple, back and forth before applying the slightest pressure. It’s not enough to cut off his ability to breathe but the sense of power that he _could_ is overwhelming. There is a keening noise from Timmy in response as he somehow manages to push against him, increasing the force of Armie is applying while continuing to suck him off. Armie is blind to anything but the feeling, adrift in the haze of pleasure, too lost to know what’s happening until it’s too late. 

He shifts his fingers, cupping the curve of Timmy's jaw, tempted by the ability to feel himself through the wall of Timmy’s throat as he takes him deeper than anyone’s ever managed in his life. It’s the wrong side of good and the struggle is real to find the strength to restrain himself, to resist the desire to thrust into the warm tight embrace of Timmy's mouth and throat.

He has no desire to end what is happening, only to hopefully shift the mood, persuade Timmy to slow down, calm down. He moves his hand, smoothing his palm across the crown of Timmy’s head, caressing his hair. It’s slides through his fingers like silk.

“Look at you,” Armie sighs, breathless and unwilling to hide his wonder. His fingers gentle against Timmy’s cheek.

Timmy flinches away, trying to shake off Armie’s touch with a quick twitch of his head.

He pulls off, looking up at Armie, accusation burning painfully bright in his eyes. Gasping for breath, his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before dropping lower, swiping at his chin which drips with saliva. His lips are swollen, his eyes red; the most beautiful mess Armie has ever seen.

Armie drops his hand back to the bed, once more fisting the sheets at his side as Timmy starts in again, but this time, he plants his hands on the back of Armie’s thighs, pushing them up towards his chest and spreading them out so that he is now granted access to Armie’s most personal space.

Armie grunts in surprise only to quickly switch to a hiss of shock when Timmy’s mouth finds his balls, pulling one, then the other into his mouth. He rolls them on his tongue, sucking the thin skin between his teeth just to the edge of discomfort before allowing them to slip free with a wet smack of his lips.

Armie’s shock amplifies to feel Timmy’s mouth continue exploring, rooting around with nose and lips underneath his tight sack, his tongue slipping between the cheeks of Armie’s ass. He presses with the tip of his tongue where his finger had been earlier and Armie thinks he might actually lose his mind.

“ _Fuuuuck_ ,” Armie grinds out, the sound like gravel caught between sandpaper _._ He’s completely overwhelmed, the tight heat building at the base of his spine, the need to come, blinding and urgent. Imminent.

The room is filled with the wet vulgar sounds of Timmy’s mouth as he works Armie into a frenzy. Timmy’s laboured breathing and Armie’s heaving moans adding to the libidinous cacophony.

“You want my tongue in your asshole? Wanna fuck yourself on my tongue, Armie?” Timmy’s words are barely intelligent, muffled against Armie’s ass. “Wanna come with my tongue in you? You taste so good, so fucking good.”

Armie can’t breathe, it’s all enough to set him off, fuel to the raging fire lighting him up from the inside out.

The muscles of Armie’s thighs tense, his whole body vibrating, all clear indicators that Armie isn’t going to last. It sends Timmy into a flurry of motion as Armie reels in loss and despair.

“Wha- ?” Armie’s tongue feels three sizes too large for his mouth as he tries to figure out how words actually work.

Timmy struggles, using only one hand to remove his boxer shorts, somehow managing to clumsily keep Armie at least partially in his mouth at the same time. He kicks them off his feet, off the end of the bed, before folding himself up, tucking his knees underneath his body. He continues to work Armie with one hand, tight quick movements meant to keep him hard but not push him over the edge. He reaches for the condoms.

The breath freezes in Armie’s chest. He feels like a complete asshole for lying there inert, incapable of even participating, overwhelmed by the fact Timmy is sliding a condom over his cock and he _knows_ somewhere in his head what that means, but can’t process the idea.

Armie’s cock thumps dully against his stomach once Timmy relinquishes his death-grip on it. It lies there throbbing with a muted heartbeat of its own beneath the latex binding it. He’s thankful for the respite, for the tightness of the condom taking the edge off his helpless need to come. There is sweat slowly dripping from his brow, tickling the hair at his ear and he’s out of breath as if he’d just finished one of his nightly jogs he hasn’t had to take in days.

Armie feels high, everything around him surreal with the nebulous _something_ hovering at the edges of _not-quite-right_.  He’s aware he needs to manage his breathing, to try and gather some sense of control, at least over himself. But Timmy’s like a whirlwind, twisting him up, turning him around until he can’t think or see straight.

To try and ground himself, he looks back at Timmy, still hunched over, head hanging low between his shoulders. His hair tickles Armie’s thighs with every movement. The curve of his back is on full display, a long creamy slope of unblemished perfection, the bump of his vertebrae too prominent beneath the pale, nearly translucent skin. The way he sits perched on his knees puts his ass high enough above his shoulders that Armie can appreciate the upper curve of each cheek. Peaches and cream.

It takes another second (God, he really is sex-addled) before he notices Timmy’s arm is bent at an odd angle, reaching behind himself. There are soft, wet squelching sounds as his shoulder shifts and he grunts quietly.

“ _Oh, my god,_ ” Armie feels like he’s choking on his own tongue.

It hits him like a two by four to the back of the head. The idea Timmy is preparing himself to be fucked by Armie makes his cock jerk against his stomach and Armie feels like he’s been punched in the solar plexus. “Tim-”

Armie isn’t sure if he’s begging for him to stop or hoping he never does but Timmy only shakes his head again.

“I want your cock in me so bad,” his words are stuttered around each impatient torque of his arm behind him. “I _need_ it.”

Armie feels like he should be helping or at least some sort of active participant in all of this instead of the passive mess he is, but Timmy doesn’t give him time to do more than think about it, let alone act on it, before he’s shifting once more in the bed.

In a rush of movement too fast for Armie to take in or appreciate in any way, Timmy rises to his knees, shuffling around until he’s straddling Armie’s hips. One hand cups himself, hiding everything behind his palm and forearm. It’s disappointing, Armie wants to _see_ him, all of him, but goes blind to it all the moment Timmy’s other hand grabs him, holding his cock up and away from his body, pressing it against Timmy’s wet and waiting entrance.

“I want you to watch me. Watch your cock _destroy_ my asshole,” Timmy groans, bears down, his thighs tensing on either side of Armie’s waist. Armie can see the striations of muscle beneath the skin and he has to touch, his palms brushing against the fine dark hair from knee to hip.

“Can you see?” His fingers curl around beneath and behind his balls, lifting them up and out of the way, giving Armie a clear view as he slowly enters Timmy’s body. “Watch me take all of you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Armie hisses, the pressure of Timmy’s body swallowing him almost more than he can bear.

“I want you to see every inch, stretch me open, split me wide,” Timmy grunts with exertion, his legs shaking as his body slides slowly down. “I want to be full of you. I’ll feel you for _days._ ”

Armie can’t take his eyes off where their bodies join and his breath leaves him in a rush when Timmy finally sits flush in his lap. It shouldn’t be physically possible. That he can fit inside Tim’s slim body, that he isn’t literally tearing him in two. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, but it feels so fucking good Armie can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t fucking _think_.

The tight heat of Timmy’s body, gripping him like a glove.

Armie is on the verge of passing out, or having a heart attack. Either way, he’s going to die and there is nothing he can do to stop it from happening.

Armie barely recognises words, let alone if they make sense or not. Timmy doesn’t stop the constant chatter, baiting Armie with words clearly meant to incite. _Well practiced._ Again, the alarm bells ring. Armie struggles for breath, blinks his eyes. Dulled by impending ecstasy, he attempts to focus and understand what’s happening.

Timmy grabs one of Armie’s hands, fingers like a vice around his wrist and places it low against his stomach. Armie swallows some unnamed emotion when he notes how his broad palm nearly covers the entirety of Timmy’s too-thin, concave abdomen.

“Can you feel how deep you are, Armie?” Timmy’s voice is barely a rasp, his words stuttered through his own gasping breaths as he starts to slowly rock against Armie, shifting his hips up and down.

Armie watches in fascination, the roll of his hips. He doesn’t know if the movement he feels beneath his palm is actually attributed to himself or the play of muscles in Timmy’s stomach as he works himself on Armie’s cock. The thought that he’s so deep inside Timmy is nearly enough to make him come, then and there.

“Yeah,” he pants, grinding with more force against Armie. “I want to make you come. I want you to come so deep inside of me. I’ll still-” another gasp. “I’ll still feel it, hot and deep, even with the condom. I wish it wasn’t there. Wish you were inside of me bare, fucking me raw. Imagine how wet you’d leave me, dripping… I want to feel you leaking out of me.”

The images he describes burn bright against Armie’s closed eyelids, the desire and need so evident in Timmy’s voice. Armie wants- _needs_ \- to reciprocate, wants this to be a shared experience as much as it can be. He moves his hand from under Timmy’s on his stomach, reaching for the hand that still cups his genitals, wanting that pleasure for himself. To touch and feel Timmy as he falls apart with Armie.

But the minute Armie’s fingers brush Timmy’s knuckles, only seeking to trade places with their hands, Timmy’s twists, pulls away from Armie’s touch.

That’s when it all goes to shit, the dawning of understanding like plunging head first into a brick wall.

Timmy still moans wildly in ecstasy, his thrusts growing more desperate and needy, as if he can’t get enough, as if it’s the best thing he’s ever done. But the horror is dawning, becomes undeniable when Armie looks up into his face, past the hair, sweat-drenched and plastered to his forehead, against his cheek. His face is mottled red but instead of open-mouthed bliss, his face is contorted in pain, his eyes squeezed shut as tears bleed from the corners.

Armie has to swallow the bile that rises to the back of his throat, his blood freezes in his veins. He reaches for Timmy’s hand again, only to have it knocked away with a sharp jab from his elbow.

“Fuck me,” his voice is hard and brittle as he grinds down in Armie’s lap to the point of discomfort. “Just fuck me. Fuck me, Armie.”

It’s a litany now, crazed and frightening.

“ _Stop it_ ,” there’s no denying the pleading in Armie’s tone. He grips Timmy’s wrist, tight enough to feel the bones give a little, grinding together, finally pulling his hand from where he’s caged himself. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Armie nearly howls, sitting up as Timmy struggles to break out of his grip, fighting to conceal himself from Armie, but it’s too late. Armie sees what he’s been trying to hide, his cock soft, hanging limp between his legs, absolutely uninterested in what Armie believed Timmy had been enjoying all along.

But he continues fucking himself on Armie, still trying to get Armie off with no regard to himself at all, clearly in pain, and definitely not enjoying it.

Armie is going to be sick.

“Just come, I just want you to come in me. Do it. I know you want to. Why won’t you just do it?”

Armie is certain Timmy has no clue what he’s saying, the words spluttered through the snot and tears now covering his face and he can’t listen to them another second.

“Shut up, just shut up,” Armie begs the tightness of his own tears now building in his chest, his eyes burning.

It’s another wrestling match of the entirely wrong sort, but Armie easily manhandles Timmy over, off of him, forcing him to the bed, pinning his arms up and away. Timmy doesn’t give up, growling like some wild lewd creature, clawing to get back to Armie, to finish what he started.

“Timmy, stop this _please_.”

“You’re hurting me,” he whines, kicking his legs, trying to use the force of his twisting body to break free from Armie’s grasp.

“Then stop fighting me,” Armie manages, anger biting through clenched teeth, the strain of holding Timmy down evident in the tightness of his words. “Please, just stop fighting me.”

There is a split second when Timmy freezes, looking up into Armie’s face, panting for breath until all the rage and pain melts away to fear and sadness in the same instance his body goes limp. The moment he feels Armie relax the slightest fraction, he hurls himself into Armie’s arms, sobbing, clinging to Armie as if his life depended on it.

Armie’s heart shatters as he holds Timmy close, arms wrapped so tight around  his trembling frame it must hurt, but Timmy only seems to want closer, tighter. His tears smeared into Armie’s neck.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Armie softly reassures, mouths against the bare skin of his shoulder, hoping he can somehow push the words into him, make him believe them if he can feel them. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the continued support and love for this fic. All your comments and shout-outs on Tumblr make my life a much happier place. None of it goes unappreciated. <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to sincerely apologise for the long wait for this update. Real life has thrown me some curve balls recently that sapped my ability to get words down. Hopefully, I'm getting back in the swing of things. I am determined to finish this fic, so if you are still here with me, know that it is appreciated and means the world. xoxo
> 
> All the love and thanks to @iknowthebattle, for the professional edit job and for being the best support, cheerleader and friend anyone could ask for. If it weren't for her, I'd have given this all up ages ago. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Navigating emotions in the aftermath.

 

_“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go.”_

  
Armie’s never been one to believe his own hype but he thinks he might be a pretty good actor.

Somehow he has just managed to pull off an Oscar-calibre performance to portray a man capable of control and strength. He held an inconsolable Timmy in his arms, the weight of him nothing against Armie’s broad, formidable body as he remembered the useless fact that an ant can carry up to fifty times its own bodyweight. The burden Timmy has carried all his young life staggering to Armie. But by some luck of the universe, Armie managed to hold his shit together long enough to keep the tattered edges of  Timmy from fraying beyond repair, holding the thread-bare stitches of Timmy’s shattered heart and battered soul from scattering to the four winds until he slept, heavy, exhausted, wrung dry.

That’s when the trembling had begun. The moment Timmy’s body went lax with sleep against Armie’s chest, Armie has slowly unraveled.  There was no one to wind his own spool back up.

Timmy snuffled, an endearing, wet congested sound, burrowing deeper into the pillows, the only indication Armie had moved. Carefully, he’d unwound himself from their tangle of limbs, their skin making a clicking sticky sound as he pulled away. Where every bare inch of skin touched, sweat and tears bound them as if their physical chemistry wanted them fused into one.

Armie felt the anxiety rising like a black tide. It collected, bitter as bile in the back of his throat, his chest too tight to take a breath, wrapped in rigid bands of regret and a sadness which threatened to swallow him whole. The room was suddenly airless, a prison he needed to escape before the scream that clawed at his chest made its way to his throat.

He dressed with trembling fingers, Archie’s leash clasped in his numb fist before he’d  thought what came next or what he was supposed to do. The pretense of walking him was his coward’s way out. He knew leaving Timmy alone _now_ was the shittiest thing he’d possibly ever done, but he had to get out, get away before he showed his hand, before Timmy realised Armie was not a person he could depend on to be the strong one.

On the way out the door, he turned on every light in the room.

 

*****

 

Armie’s pretty sure the last time he _cried_ was when Ford was born. The memory is so vivid. Bending low, hovering over Liz in the bed where she held the messy, squalling bundle they told him was his son. The room had been shrouded in eerie silence. The monitors gauging contractions no longer beeped and blared the incessant announcement. Silence, thick and reverent filled the spaces between the meek and precious cries from lungs new to the sensation. And Armie had found fat, crystalline tears falling from his eyes in sheer wonder and gratitude, landing in warm dollops on the pink and blue striped beanie they placed on all newborns after birth as he pressed his lips to a cheek so soft it barely registered as touch.

He recalls his eyes had grown watery, his throat tight as he placed the last box of Harper and Ford’s belongings- the stuff that would now be divided between mom’s place and dad place- into the back of the moving van. One lone tear had fallen into his glass of Scotch that night, alone in his new, empty house for the first time.

There had been a moment of burning pressure behind his eyes when he signed the divorce papers. Saying goodbye to ten years of your life is never easy no matter how much you know it’s for the best and that glimmer of hope was what held the tears at bay that time, he’s certain.

Reaching back through time, he knows he hasn’t cried like this in _years_.

The tears he’d shed before had always been tinged with their own kind of joy. Well, not all and maybe _relief_ is a better word for the emotion he had felt with the birth of his kids, the end of his marriage. Relief they were healthy and whole and relief that he might actually find happiness again.

He’s never cried like he does now, with a heart so heavy and burdened with the unwavering knowledge that he can’t make things better for Timmy. No matter what he does or how hard he might try, he will never be able to erase the damage done to him.

Armie sits on a low, concrete bench near the pool. It was as far as he could manage. There is a fenced in greenspace keeping Archie occupied with smelling every blade of grass while rudely marking them all as his own as Armie finally breaks down completely.

Elbows on his knees, Armie sags forward. His forearms hang limply between his thighs, his hands useless, unworthy of holding the heart of someone so fragile. Tears drip from his chin, leaving their dark imprint on the concrete between his feet, bleeding like ink in a grim Rorschach test. What would he say, if his therapist were to ask him _what are you thinking_? There is no answer, no words he could conjure to convey an anguish so sharp it’s left a thousand tiny wounds. He’s bleeding out.

Armie sobs and shudders, alone. The pool glows blue, a pulsing alien thing that only aids in leaving him with the feeling of being adrift, unmoored. He cries until he’s hollow as a pumpkin, the guts of his emotions, carved out, careless, with a spoon.

He still feels the imprint of Timmy’s arms around him, can feel the tears of his pain in the sore hollow of his throat. Armie knows Timmy thinks his words, his promise to never let him go was only said to placate him, to ease him through his distress but he couldn’t be more wrong. Armie _meant_ them. He means them now. He’ll mean them tomorrow, next week. Ten years from now.

The worst thing about this entire nightmare is that Armie meant to _protect_ Timmy, only to be the one who hurt him in the end. That’s the one thing that’s held him back these past weeks. His desire for Timmy burns like a star, bright and hot, has since the moment he first met him. The irony of finally giving in and attempting to take that step with Timmy was as ludicrous as trying to hold that star in his hands. It had scorched them both, obliterated them to smouldering rubble; space dust and ash.

 _What_ had _he been thinking?_ Armie _knew_ it was too soon, but had allowed his hindbrain to overrule every instinct he had. Somehow he had convinced himself of, what? How could he have convinced himself all Timmy needed was attention in any form? Believe all he had to do was dole out tender touches and whispered breaths and a lifetime of abuse and neglect would be erased in the span of one fucking night of passion?

 _Hero complex._ Armie’s pretty sure that’s what his therapist would tell him.  

 _As always, a failure in all things._ His mom would be proud to know he proved her right once again.

There is an ache, a pain in the acceptance that he has failed to save Timmy because of the realisation that quickly follows. The reason why Armie so _desperately_ wants to be the one to _save_ Timmy leaves him breathless.

His watery vision sweeps past the glowing blue surface of the pool to the parking lot with its cracked and crumbling blacktop, baked to cinders in the unrelenting California heat.  He can hear the long low whine of a Jake brake in the distance, a truck slowing on the highway nearly half a mile away.

Cicadas drone from the stand of pines behind the hotel. Beyond them, the hill rolls out, rising higher in altitude, the scorched earth demarcation of a past wildfire clearly marked along the ridgeline. The air conditioning unit hums. Archie lies at the edge of the pool deck, head resting between his paws on the concrete, his body on the grass. His eyes are closed. Armie wonders how long he’s been lying there? How much time has passed?

Life in all its mundane normality surrounds him and he wonders how that’s possible when this _one realisation_ has just rocked his world like an earthquake-

He is in love with Timmy.

He thinks back to when he fell in love with Liz. There had been no great revelation in their relationship. They’d been friends first and slowly morphed into being a couple. It had been comfortable, something (he can admit now) that had just sort of been expected of the both of them. The Hollywood machine preferred their stars ‘relatable’. Family life played well on magazine covers. Red carpets loved a couple more than rocking up with someone different every time. Reputation was everything and Armie had never wanted to be ‘the bad boy’. That seemed like more work than it was worth.

So settling into married and family life had simply become another means to an end. He understood he was offered roles he probably wouldn’t have been if they’d thought he was anything other than settled down, stable. Scandal might help a film in the short term, if the adage ‘any press is good press’ is to be believed.

Looking back on it now, he’s certain neither of them had their heart in it. It had been the easiest role Armie had ever played until he understood he didn’t want to pretend anymore. Not in that aspect of his life. That’s when the burden became unbearable. He had no idea what it was that he _did_ want when it all became too much for him to keep up the facade. He simply knew that Liz and the life of _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_ they found themselves living, wasn’t it.

Armie smears the tears from his chin with the back of his hand, sniffs loudly enough in the quiet night that Archie’s head pops up like a gopher from its hole. It’s ridiculous and he barks out a laugh while Archie looks at him as if Armie’s the oddest creature he’s ever seen.

Armie knows he’s done the worst possible thing tonight. He never should have given in like he did. It was too soon for them to be together physically and he had _known_ that somewhere beyond the haze of lust and want he constantly fought when he was with Timmy.

He worries what has just transpired has ended a way of finding a path forward into a future with him. Though his gut clenches with that worry, it does nothing to stop the sudden rush of breath when his mind allows him to open the box on the thought that a future with Timmy might actually be possible. It can’t stop his heart from pounding wildly in the cavern of his chest as the rush of love and devotion is allowed free rein to burst to the surface of his skin, to tingle in the tips of his fingers, his face blooming with heat. He wants to languish in the idea, in the flood of warmth and affection that rises like the sun to light the darkness of  perpetual dusk he’s felt trapped in for so long.

Isn’t this the moment where any normal person would be having a crisis of identity? Armie’s lived his whole life as the quintessential _leading man_ . His personal life a case of textbook heterosexuality. His film career jammed with overtly alpha male roles. Being attracted to a man was no more than a shadow in the darkest recesses of his mind, but here he is, nonplussed by the fact he has given in so eagerly, so _easily_ . He _loves_ Timmy.

Armie is certain that his career is over. He had thought that was at the heart of what his sleepless nights had been about, that had pushed him out of his house, running into the night. But now he understands. Armie was never running _from_ anything. He was running to _find_ something he needed even more.

 _Himself_.

Armie sits up straight, taking a deep breath that only barely catches somewhere behind his ribcage and looks back toward the hotel to where their room is located as if he can see through the wall. See Timmy. Archie pads over, his leash trailing along behind him. He places his head on Armie’s knee with a sigh. Armie gently pats his head, rubs behind his ears and bends down to press a kiss to his head before standing up.

 

*****

 

“Dammit,” Armie hisses beneath his breath.

Archie has managed to somehow wrap himself around Armie like a tree as he juggles a pizza box and the keycard, struggling to get the door open as quietly as he can. The light on the handle turns green just as the door swings open.

“Hey-” Armie stutters in surprise, stumbling in the tangle of leash around his ankle as Timmy deftly catches the pizza box before it tumbles to the floor between them.

“I was hoping you were still sleeping,” Armie offers quietly, high-stepping out of Archie’s way, closing the door behind him. Timmy places the pizza on the table.

His hand lingers on the box for a moment before he tucks it with the other one tightly around his torso. He’s wearing an old gray hoodie of Armie’s which he had hastily thrown into his bag before they left and Armie’s eyes can’t help but search out the bag, sitting on the floor by the bed, unzipped, the contents spilling into the floor.

Of course Timmy notices everything.

“Do you mind? I’m- I’m sorry. I woke up and I thought you were gone and I didn’t-”

“No. No, it’s okay. Of course I don’t mind. You’re welcome,” Armie’s mouth is dry, his tongue thick. “To anything of mine.”

Timmy nods and twists his arms around one another in front of him, fingers clasped tightly before pulling at the too-long sleeves of the sweatshirt. He chews at one corner of his bottom lip and doesn’t meet Armie’s eyes. He should look ridiculous standing there barelegged, the hem of the shirt hanging to mid-thigh, too large on his too-small frame. But he simply looks lost and uncomfortable in his own skin, and it adds another wound to the multitude Armie suffers, a keen, sharp stab left-of-center to his chest.

He wants to wrap him in his own arms. The instinct is overwhelming, inappropriate so he focuses on Archie.  He removes his leash, and once free, he immediately trots over to Timmy, tail-wagging. He unwinds himself enough to pet him. Satisfied everyone still loves him, he moves on. Armie can hear him lapping at water from the bowl in the bathroom.

The TV is on, the sound now barely audible, offering little help in filling the loaded silence between them. Armie adamantly refuses to look at the bed, but it hovers in the corner of his vision, the twisted sheets a grim reminder that makes his stomach turn.

“Hungry?”

He wants to cringe at the false levity of his tone, the tight smile that stretches his mouth. He hangs the leash from the door handle before moving to the mini-fridge. There’s no way but through, so he takes out two beers, popping the top loudly on one before handing it over to Timmy.

Armie toes off his sneakers and pops open his own beer, downing half the can in one long, greedy pull. He sits at the tiny table, flipping open the box and grabbing a slice. Timmy’s finger plucks at the tab on top of the can, a metallic ping each time it slips off the end of his fingernail.

With his foot, Armie kicks out the chair opposite him, an invitation, eyeing Timmy where he still stands, taking a bite too big from the pointy end of his slice. He can see the rise and fall of Timmy’s shoulders as he takes a deep breath before slinking into the seat like an oil slick.

It’s a small victory. Armie hides his smile as he takes another bite.

“You don’t like pepperoni?”

Timmy has meticulously removed each piece,  placing them one by one in the empty space left behind from Armie’s slice.

His shoulders lift in a shrug but stay firmly in place around his ears, his head bent. “They’re okay,” as proof he puts the last one in his mouth.

“No, I didn’t-” Armie sits forward, dropping the crust in the box with the discarded sausage. “I was only… I wanted to know. For next time, maybe. To be certain to get what _you_ like.”

Timmy looks up. His eyes wide and luminous. “Next time?”

His voice is hesitant, full of unease. It kills Armie to hear. He doesn’t want to believe the spark that made him so _Timmy_ has been extinguished. He adores all facets of him.

Armie grabs another slice, easing back into his chair, feigning a calm he doesn’t possess, one he doubts he ever did where Timmy is concerned. He’s an actor after all.

“‘Course,” he chews the word out. “My cooking skills are thoroughly centered around the grill and while I love meat,” he smiles, cheeks full as a chipmunk, takes a drink and swallows noisily before continuing. “I don’t want it _everyday_. So yeah. I want to know what you like. This isn’t a dictatorship.”

Timmy picks at the cheese on his pizza, pulling a piece off. It stretches until it’s almost in his mouth before the connection breaks. For one second the tail end of it hangs from his mouth before his tongue pulls it inside.

Armie stares, mesmerised, hoping he takes another bite only to watch as he continues to pick at it, breaking tiny bits of crust off and placing them beside his slice on the napkin he uses in lieu of a plate.

“This,” he has to clear his throat, the word half audible, chewed off. He doesn’t look at Armie. “It’s not a ‘dictatorship’. But what- what exactly _is_ this? I mean,” he sighs, heavy, the weight of it forcing him to sag in his seat.

He brings his knees up, rests his chin on the knobs of his bare knees, his socks go halfway up his shins. Wrapping his arms around them, he finally _looks_ at Armie.

Armie looks back, lets him _see_ right down into the meat of him. He would peel his own skin back if Timmy could just _look_ and _see_ all that Armie wants him to know, all that he feels.

Neither looks away and the moment stretches tight between them. Armie’s eyes are finally pulled away, drawn to the bob of Timmy’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, his mouth opens and closes. He blinks.

“After what happened earlier, you can’t think- you can’t want me to-”

“I can. I _do_ ,” the words surge out of him, a confession he couldn’t hold back if he wanted. “I want you to stick around. I want to see-”

“ _Armie_ ,” Timmy groans out his name, dropping his forehead to his knees. It rolls back and forth, a frustrated and emphatic _no_ before sitting up so suddenly Armie has the urge to lean back out of the way, as if Timmy were about to launch himself out of his chair at him.

Armie remains motionless, held captive under his virescent gaze. His fingers curl into fists in his lap, braced for impact. He’s prepared for the onslaught and doesn’t have to wait long before Timmy is giving it to him, his face etched in lines of determination, shadows of regret.

“You want to see _what?_ What exactly do you think is going to happen here? _Armie_ -” he punches his knee with his fist, biting the word out as if it _hurts._ “This isn’t a _fairytale_ . This isn’t a fucking _movie._ ” His mouth snaps shut, the muscles of his jaw clenched, he turns his head to the side, looking toward the window, searching the closed blinds as if he can see past them into a future that can’t exist.

Armie doesn’t respond, can see in every tense line of Timmy’s body that he isn’t finished, he can see his will to say them, his need for Armie to hear all the reasons _why_ they can’t, they won’t, they shouldn’t. He sits back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. He kicks his legs out, they stretch and land under Timmy’s chair, one ankle over the other. Patient and willing to let Timmy work it out in his own time.

Armie is resolute. The calmness he exudes is not a front and he hopes in some way, it is a comfort to Timmy and his anxiety. There is so much Armie wants to say, to tell Timmy, but it isn’t his time to speak. Armie had his _come to Jesus_ moment, by the pool as all the little pieces of their puzzle fit together in order for Armie to see the big picture, to come to terms with the _what_ and the _why_ of all of this.

He hopes that Timmy will do the same… that the puzzle that he completes in his own head will be the same- a technicolor photograph of their future, together.

So, Armie waits, anxious and hopeful. His silence causing Timmy to squirm. He chews the nail of his pinky finger before sighing heavily, looking at Armie with narrowed eyes.

“You really think you and I could, what- _date?_ That’s what you want?” He rolls his eyes, the scoff implied.

Armie shrugs. “Why not?”

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you even know-” Timmy breaks off, looks away again. His laugh is brittle. “This isn’t going to have a happy ending no matter how hard you want it to. You’ve been living in that Hollywood bubble too long, _la muvi star_.”

It’s the first time he’s used that moniker since their nightly walks, since before Armie knew him as _Timmy_ , when he still believed himself an invisible man.  There’s no warmth or teasing to it now, only cold bitterness. Armie suppresses a shiver. He stares, daring Timmy to look away. The hollows of his cheeks flame, stark against his pale skin.

A sign that gives Armie more hope than it probably should.

Timmy swallows. “I’m a _whore_ , Armie,” his mouth catches on the word, his tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip in a nervous tic Armie is becoming accustomed to seeing.

Armie sits up, leans forward with his elbows on his knees to close the distance between them, needing to be closer to him. Timmy’s arms squeeze tighter around his knees.

It isn’t an act of intimidation, but he stares hard at Timmy, wanting the weight of his next words to be fully felt.

“That’s what you _do,_ Tim. That isn’t who you _are._ ”

Timmy blinks, looks down at his hands, his thumbs twisting round and round themselves.

In the silence that’s left in the wake of his statement, Armie can hear the television and wants to laugh. It’s his voice, but not. The trailer for _The Duke_.

_“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”_

When Armie had been researching the role, he’d found that line to be an actual misquote. The original line from Wayne- _"Well, there's some things a man just can't run away from."_ \- came from the film _Hondo_ and not _Stagecoach_ as is so widely believed. He had mentioned it to the director, but he and the scriptwriter thought the more commonly known version would ‘play’ better. Fine. It wasn’t a deal-breaker, it just always felt to Armie as if the original line held more impact.

It did for him personally. He thinks maybe that was the beginning of all of this. That one line of dialogue had burrowed so deeply into a part of himself he had yet to discover at that time. That film would forever mark a turning point in his life. The fixed point that delineated his life into _before_ and _after._

Armie’s crying jag by the pool had brought into clarity this was not something he was willing to run away from. Timmy was worth it all. The risk, the exposure, there was nothing Armie would not do to make Timmy understand that.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as riding off into the sunset together, Armie wasn’t naive enough to believe that, but the rewards certainly out weighed the risks in his mind. His concern now was more solely focused on Timmy. When news of them broke, it was going to be like stepping into the middle of a hurricane. Armie’s priority now was to protect Timmy, make certain he wasn’t sullied in any way by this.

But Armie was borrowing trouble, letting these thoughts take up real estate when he didn’t have a clue if they were even moving forward,  past this moment at all.

Timmy sighs and drops his head, his words muffled against his knees. “What can you possibly expect out of this from me?”

Armie’s throat aches. “This isn’t just about what _I_ want. What do you want out of this from _me_? I’m not interested in a one-way street, not with you.”

For a second, Timmy’s head lolls, back and forth. Armie watches the play of light on the crown of his head, the flashes of auburn like a secret in the dark. It feels as if he’s holding his breath, would hold it forever if Timmy asked him to.

He lifts his head, eyes lowered.

“I can’t even have _sex with you_.”

His sentence fades, growing quieter with each word, testament to how truly difficult this all is for him to process.

A groan builds in the back of Armie’s throat. He stares at his hands, shakes his head.

“Fuck, it isn’t about sex. I don’t give a shit if we ever get off together.”

Timmy doesn’t hold back the scoff this time, his head falling back, staring at the ceiling. “Please, you’re going to tell me-”

“Yeah. I fucking _am_ . I was married for years with two small kids, trust me. I know how to go without _fucking_ -”

“And, remind me again how that went,” the rebuttal comes too quickly.

Armie struggles to reel in his frustration, desperate for Timmy to understand he means what he’s saying. He takes a deep breath.

“Touché,” his lip twitches with the inappropriate urge to smile. “Sex was the least of our problems.”

“You have _kids,_ Armie. How is this ever supposed to work? What do you tell them?”

Armie sits back, shoves his hands through his hair. “They’re seven and five. There’s nothing to tell them right now. Nothing they need to know other than you make their dad very happy.”

Timmy turns away, closes his eyes.

“Look, I know this is a _lot._ Kids, an ex-wife,” Armie pauses, his brow furrowed. “Is it my track record? The fact I’m divorced-?”

Timmy laughs. It’s not that easy wheezing laugh Armie’s grown to love but something brittle and stark. His mouth wide open, his eyes bright, manic.

“You think I’m worried because you’re _divorced_? That’s what you think is my hold up?” he can barely get the words out, a stop gap filled with laughter.

Armie throws up his hands. “Well if it isn’t that, I don’t know what else the hold up might be. Sex is off the table, whether just for now, or forever,  I’m _fine_ with it.” Armie takes a breath. “It’s you, you gotta know that. I want to be with you and I’m okay with whatever shape that takes-”

“But, I’m not!” Timmy’s voice cracks like a whip, too loud. “Jesus, are you even listening to yourself?  I don’t want you to settle-”

It’s Armie’s turn to interject, just as abrupt, but meeting Timmy where he is. “ _I’m_ not.” Deep breath, softer. “I’m not, Tim. I’m not settling, I’m not missing out on anything. You are _not_ a consolation, you are the _prize._ I never knew this was what I wanted, what I _needed_ , not till you.”

Timmy’s mouth does something strange, his lips pinched. His eyes grow wet and Armie aches, wants to reach out for him, to touch him in some way but knows he can’t. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever be allowed just a simple touch. Some comfort.

“But I want all of that,” he barely manages to speak the words loud enough for Armie to hear, his hand waving in the direction of the bed. He blinks and one tear slides down his cheek. “You made me- I didn’t know I could want that, not really. And I do and now I’m so fucked up I _can’t._ ”

“ _No,_ don’t say that. You aren’t fucked up. You aren’t, Tim.” Armie leans forward now, doesn’t let himself think before taking Tim’s hands in his own. He holds them suspended between them.

“There is _nothing_ wrong with you. None of what happened to you was your fault,” Timmy starts to say something but Armie shakes him off. “We can find someone you can talk to or whatever you think you might need. I just want you to be happy, Tim. I want to make you happy. It doesn’t matter-”

Timmy pulls one hand away to wipe at his nose with the sleeve of Armie’s hoodie. “Don’t be stupid, of course it matters.”

“Thanks, but I’m not _that_ shallow.”

“I said ‘stupid’ not shallow.”

“Are you done?”

Timmy chews on the cuff of his (Armie’s) sleeve and doesn’t say anything more. His shoulders sag and Armie knows the fight has gone out of him.

_A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do._

Before he can talk himself out of it, Armie slips to his knees in the space between their seats. He gently takes Timmy’s ankles in his hands, lowering his feet to the floor. Timmy watches, eyes like saucers as Armie maneuvers himself closer. He isn’t trying to crowd him or spook him, or suggest anything other than he needs to be close to him, a supplicant.

He takes both Timmy’s hands in his again. They both watch as Armie’s thumbs caress the thin skin on the back of his hands. Armie’s heart beats wildly in the hollow of his throat.

He swallows, his mouth dry and his tongue thick but he doesn’t look up, can’t look at Timmy in this moment.

“I love you.”

Timmy goes rigid, the tension telegraphed from his fingers, his palms, into Armie’s.

“Stop.”

Armie shakes his head, no turning back now. “I’m _in_ love with you and I want to try, whatever you are willing to give, whatever you want,  that’s all I want. I’m not asking for anything more than what you can give me.”

“Please _stop._ ” He gasps, begs and it breaks Armie’s heart.

He finally looks up, stunned to find Timmy ready, there, to meet his eyes.

Armie can’t stop himself from asking, “Do you want this? Do you want to try?”

Timmy’s throat bobs, the uncertainty clear in his eyes. A whisper. “I do.”

Armie nods, the relief so overwhelming he melts. Timmy meets him halfway, rests his forehead against Armie’s.

“I’m not…” Armie’s voice is thick. “I didn’t say this to you to guilt you into anything. I needed you to know. I wanted you to know.”

Timmy nods but doesn’t say anything. Armie presses his lips to Timmy’s forehead and feels him slowly relax, tentatively nuzzling his cheek against Armie's hair.

Armie would be content to stay just as they are all night, breathing in sync-

“Come to bed with me?”

Armie feels like he’s been doused with ice water.

“Tim-”

Timmy presses his head against Armie’s, the pressure an exclamation point on his request.

“Please, just come to bed with me. I want- Armie, I’m terrified but I need to _try.”_

Armie squeezes his eyes shut, his throat tight, his words barely audible.

“Okay. Yes, okay. Of course.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm [foryou-insilence](foryou-insilence.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. <3
> 
> ETA: I know I am so behind on responding to comments. I'm gonna try to catch up over the next few days, I promise. But to everyone who's left one, here and on previous chapters, know I read each one and am touched by the response this fic is receiving. Thank you so much.


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